The MGB Experience

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about how I have always been intrigued with repairing things.  Since I was a kid, the challenge of taking a broken down item and making it work again would consume my thoughts until I succeeded or had to cry uncle.  When I wrote this, I was lamenting about my 1976 MGB restoration project that has just become such an albatross, that I threw in the towel and moved on to a 1979 MGB that I can actually drive. 

Well, the flat bed truck came this week and took away my '76.  It was a bittersweet moment as I helped push her on the "hearse" and loaded all of the doors and other large pieces of her onto the truck.  The time had come to say goodbye to an old friend.  If you have never driven a British sports car, then you may not understand my obsession.  They ride hard, they burn oil, they are not particularly fast off the block, and they can really be a pain in the ass to work on.  But, simply stated, they are the most fun car you can ever hope to drive.  They have a great sound, corner hard, and just seem to bring you back to a time when "motoring" was a hobby.  Stated differently, these cars force you to enjoy the journey, and not just focus on the destination.

And that is something I can use in today's fast pace.  I no sooner learn how to text, then I have to learn what tweeting is.  My Blockbuster store closed, and now I get movies from a Coke machine in the CVS parking lot.  My cell phone has maps and apps, and I have no idea how to use any of it, including the phone.  I buy books on the computer and buy computers in the bookstore. 

So it is nice to have something that has not changed in thirty something years.  I like the creaks and squeaks.  I like the smell of the burning oil.  I like the low technology of it. 

The bitter part of watching the '76 go was quickly replaced by the sweetness of a ride around town in the working '79.   I'll see you out there.












  

Fixing big mistakes

The Big Eraser, on the Mall in Washington, D.C.

Today while driving, and then watching the news tonight on T.V. something hit me about all of the political ads.  These people are perfect.  They never make mistakes.  Their opponent makes nothing but mistakes.

No one likes to make mistakes.  But we all do.  Without mistakes, we would not learn how to do things better; to be better.  If we are not making mistakes, we are not trying. 

A personal hero of mine has always been Thomas Edison, the esteemed inventor.   What I love most about him is that he understood his own shortcomings, and worked tirelessly until he solved a problem.  One of my favorite quotes of his is:

If I find 10,000 ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is often a step forward.   

I admire Edison for understanding that he had to make mistakes in order to move forward.  While I understand that the politicians have to play to sound bites and that they are trying to paint themselves in the best light, they defeat themselves, in my eyes, by not having the willingness to admit that they have made mistakes along the way and have learned from them.  

Follow up:  I just fixed a typo.  Another mistake fixed.

 

 

Shhh..it's Secret

Artist rendering of Secret Squirrel, right, and his longtime accomplice Morrocco Mole

In his never ending quest to find yesterday's celebrities in today's settings, investigative journalist Jim follows every lead, and leaves no stone unturned.  If you will recall, last week Jim tracked down the former leader of the Gallactic Empire, Darth Vader.  Now going by the stage name of DJDV, Vader is in charge of spinning the viral at a downtown dance club.  Vader is enjoying his retirement from the big screen and finds spinning discs relaxing, yet exciting at the same time.



As promised, Jim is now hot on the trail of one of his favorite Saturday Morning superstars, Secret Squirrel.  It is common knowledge that most animated super hero's are modeled after actual living people.  As a lifelong member of the Secret Squirrel Fan Club, meeting his hero has always been a big dream of Jim's.

Jim's SS fan club patch.

Jim began his quest anew in recent months after reports that the James Bond-esque rodent was in retirement at a local park.  As can be expected there were several imposters trying to cash in on
the famous squirrel.

Jim scoured one park after another until he came across who he thought was the actual Agent 000 of the International Sneaky Service, but as the picture below shows, this was just a street performer looking to steal his fifteen minutes of fame.

Just another Secret Squirrel impersonator.

 After many months of searching, Jim came upon a promising lead.  It seems that S.S had been attracted to the mighty northwest forest of Washington State.  As detailed by an anonymous lead who identity cannot be divulged, it seems that the attraction of larger than normal acorn trees and virtual anonymity was the main attraction for the move.  Leaving the glamor of the spotlight was no doubt a big change for the bushy-tailed spy, and Jim knew that finding him would be an even greater challenge than searching the city parks.

Then, weary from days of endless searching, Jim was in need of a break.  Not even noticing the sign on the restaurant, Jim sat at the center of the oak and chestnut counter and ordered a coffee. Jim was unknowingly nearing his quest (or in layman's terms, he was getting warmer).  The sign on the front of the store was:

 After a couple of sips of coffee, and a bite of nut loaf, Jim took a good look at the short order cook behind the counter.  Sure he had aged, lost his Fez, and was now wearing contact lenses, but Jim still recognized the incomparable sidekick of the greatest spy the woods has ever known.  Although he would not divulge the whereabouts of his old pal, Morocco Mole did allow a brief interview and a picture with our reporter. 

Morocco Mole,left with our reporter

Morocco during his time on the Secret Squirrel Show

 For Jim, the thrill of meeting the best buddy of his childhood hero was unimaginable.  But the search continues.  Stay tuned.

Speaking of Ben...

A couple of years ago, a guidance councilor from a local junior/senior high school called my office and asked for some help.  The school was having a career day for their eighth grade class, and it was this person's job to line up speakers for the morning.  She explained to me that the goal of the school was to provide the kids with an understanding what different career paths they could take.  She was wondering if I would be willing to come in and give a short speech about the building trades, and what opportunities they presented as a career choice.

As she was giving me the hard sell as to why it would be great if I would agree to it, my mind began to wonder what other professions would be speaking that day.  "Mmmm...uh, huh", I kept saying as I was not listening to the sales pitch, all the while picturing doctors, lawyers, astronauts, and great actors such as Ben Affleck speaking before me.  I played out a scenario where the speaker before me would have dazzled the kids with his time traveling machine, and then I would be introduced as, "Now we have the guy that fixes your toilet".  "Mmmm...uh, huh" this was going to be great.

Then I thought, "I bet Ben Affleck can't install a water heater with his fake Bawhstin accent, and his superior acting skills".  I saw Good Will Hunting.  Old Ben didn't even know how to swing a hammer.  And the guy with the time travel machine, fu** him!  Big deal.  I bet he wouldn't know how to fix his boiler if it broke down, and would have to freeze his butt off until I got to his house and replaced the thermo-coupling on his pilot assembly.  Take that science guy.  How do you like me now?

In my zeal of my imaginary competition with all of the other professions in the world, somehow I agreed to do the speech.  I think that I said one "Mmmm...uh, huh's" too many.  In that one fleeting moment, I was going to show all those kids that the trades were the way to go.  About five minutes after the call, Ben Affleck and Bill Nye the Science Guy had left my head and I was left with the realization what I had just agreed to do.

I had taken a couple of public speaking courses in college.  I knew that a good public speaker has to engage his audience.  Get the kids interested in plumbing...what could be hard about that?  Oh well, I had a couple of weeks to think about it, and if all else fails, I would just wing it.  And I was quite sure that I was over the reaction my body had to public speaking in the past.  Imagine taking a nice, long, cool drink of sand and cotton balls, and then trying to speak out loud.  Yeah, I was sure that I was over this.

So I began to think how I would engage the kids in this interesting career path.  My first thought for my speech was to go over the five unwritten rules of plumbing.  They are:
      1. Tight is tight.  Too tight is broken.
      2. Shit does not flow uphill.
      3. Hot on the left.  Cold on the right.
      4. Don't bite your fingernails.
      5. Pay day is on Friday.                                                                                                                         

I could hear Ben Affleck in my head saying, "Yeah, wicked pissah Joey boy.  Funny stuff", so I knew that this approach would be a box-office disaster.  And besides, I never really understood Rule # 5, and Rule # 4 I learned the hard way when I was an apprentice.  Let's just say you never forget the taste of the stuff of Rule # 2.  No, let's leave the rules out of it.

I decided the best way to go was to just wing it on the day of the speech.  After all, these were just kids, and I had been coaching kids for years and was used to speaking in front of a whole bunch of them.   I would ask a couple of questions about plumbing, electricity, and carpentry and these kids would relate.  I would make a few jokes, and by the time I was done I would have convinced an entire class of 8th graders that trade school was the way to go.  And, if there was enough time left, we could all break into the Bill Nye the Science Guy theme song, or maybe watch the Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez blockbuster Gigli.  Riveting.

So the big day came, and I was due to speak at 9:30 AM.  I got to the school at 9:00 and sat in the back of the auditorium.  The speaker before me was a young woman who was a massage therapist.  Ok, so no doctors, lawyers, or Hollywood icons (think: Gigli)  "I got this", I thought to myself.  The massage therapist did a great job.  She had visual aids, was concise, and even told a funny story about her work.  Before I knew it, she was done and I was being introduced.

I am not going to say that my speech influenced a group of 8th graders to not want to be doctors or lawyers.  And I am not going to say that I bombed (much like the 2003 romantic comedy Gigli, starring Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez).  Let me just say that I remember what the sand and cotton ball cocktail tastes like, but I had a bottle of water with me.  I winged off a few funny stories about my trade, and the kids seemed to like it.  I did not bite my fingernails (refer to Rule #4), but the experience was not the most comfortable for me either and I was really tempted to to gnaw on a knuckle or two.

When it was all said and done, I could tell that most of the kids were really not that interested in the trades, or becoming an electrician or a plumber.  And I can understand why.  When you are an 8th grader, you should aspire to be Bill Nye the Science Guy, or a doctor or a lawyer...I did. When you are 13 or 14 years old, you want to be a baseball star, or the first woman President.  You want to be an astronaut, or a dentist, or the first person to fly to Mars.  At that age, you should dream big dreams.

I poke fun at Ben Affleck.  He may not be the best actor, but he is doing what he loves to do.  Ok, so Gigli was a bomb, as were a couple of other of his works, and his Boston accent is so forced that it could make shit flow uphill (Refer to Rule # 2), but he seems to be a good husband and father and is providing for his family in a job that he loves to do.

 In my speech to the kids, my most important point that I made is that you have to love what you do for work, so much so, that it is never work.  You must look forward to getting up everyday (well, almost every day) to go to your job.  Dream the big dream, but enjoy the journey most of all.  And look forward to Friday because that is apparently when you get paid.  

Darth Vader's new gig

                           
                                                         Darth and Jim before the show

Ever since the last movie, Jim was in search of what happened to Luke Skywalker's father.  It took years of searching, but he finally caught up with ol' Anakin Skywalker spinning discs at a downtown club in a city known for it's edgy entertainment emporiums.

As is evident in the picture, Darth still has the helmet head from years of wearing the get-up from his days as the leader of the dark side, but after some time in the sun, he has lost the pasty pale skin tones acquired from years under the cloak zipping throughout the cosmos trying to defeat the Rebel Alliance.

Darth seems to be happy playing the hits and asked Jim to join him behind the turntable booth for a quick lightsaber duel (toys of course).

Jim's next quest is to find his old pal from Saturday mornings, the incomparable Secret Squirrel. Stay tuned.

Rah rah rah be true to your school

I guess for me, choosing the purple school had been somewhat of a letdown for the first five or six months.  That is of course except for the Senior/Freshman dance that they had back in October.  This school did not have a gymnasium for dances, so the cafeteria tables were all folded up and put away for the big night.  All of us freshman boys were lined up along the walls, too afraid to move, and not having a clue what was going on, while the freshman girls and most of the senior boys and girls were dancing and having a blast. 

The purpose of the Senior/Freshman dance was for the seniors to dance with the freshman to help welcome them to the school, and to help assimilate the newbies into the school.  Every now and then, a senior girl would come over to ask one of us freshman boys to dance.  For us freshman boys, meeting a senior girl was even better than meeting a rock star.  Every time one of our buddies was asked to dance, all of the other guys would stand there with our mouths open, then turn to each other and simultaneously say "Wow", then hit each other and laugh like little girls.

When Elizabeth came over and asked me to dance, it was like time all of sudden stood still.  I tried to be cool and say "Sure I would love to", but I think I muttered something that sounded more like "Yabba, dabba, doo".  She grabbed my hand and took me out the dance floor and we danced one quick fast dance.  Well, she danced.  I just looked like I was squishing ants and batting at flies.  I remember not knowing what to do with my arms, and had the incredible need to keep rolling up my sleeves.  Tough to do with a short sleeved shirt on. 

When the song ended, and the music slowed down, I froze.  Do I run back to the wall?  Do I ask for her phone number?  What do I do?  I was sure that she had fulfilled some sort of contract with the nuns by dancing one dance with a freshman boy, and could now leave. But then Elizabeth put her arms over my shoulders, and continued dancing.  I cannot honestly say that I do not remember anything else about this dance with her, except that we talked, I actually spoke articulately.  We talked about the school, and some of the teachers, and we laughed.  Here I was, a geeky little freshman dancing and having a conversation with a senior girl. 

When it was over, she said thank you, and although I thought for sure that I would inadvertently repeat my "Yabba Dabba Doo" line, I thanked her instead, and real words came out of my mouth.  She went back to her friends as did I.  She went back having done a really nice thing, and I went back different than when I went out on the floor.  Yes, she was a senior girl, a rock star,  but in the previous five or six minutes she became way more than that in my eyes.  She became a really nice person, and a friend who continued to say "Hi" to me for months to come as we passed each other in the hallways.  

As I was walking back to the wall, at that very moment, I really did feel that I was a part of this school.  Except for one thing.

In that purple brochure, a special emphasis was placed on the sports history of this school.  For me, the purple experience would not be complete unless I played on a sports team.  So here it was in early March, and I had missed football tryouts, spent the winter watching basketball and hockey games from the stands because I had not been born with the genes that give the talent for either one, and I had been cut from not one, but three baseball teams.

In leading up to tell of my next attempt at athletic glory, I remembered this story about Elizabeth.  I remembered why making a team meant more to me than just playing a sport.  The school had given us freshman the chance to be welcomed by our peers, and for me that really did happen the night of the dance.  I really loved this school at this point, and really loved being a part of the tradition.  I finally understood the meaning of the Beach Boys words: be true to your school now.  I had learned to be able to speak 'non-Flintstone' words to girls thanks to Elizabeth, but now I just needed the lettermans' jacket so I could, as the Beach Boys said, let my colors fly. 

Striking out

The postings for cuts for the three baseball teams went up outside the basement office of the athletic director on the morning following the last day of tryouts.  More correctly, the rosters for the teams were tacked to the bulletin board, and if your name was on one of the lists, you were on a team.  My name was not on the Varsity roster, strike one.  Nor was it on the JV roster, strike two.  Finally, I swung at the Freshman roster and, strike three...yer out.  And there I stood at the plate glass window that covered the bulletin board, and stared in disbelief.

I was young and naive and at first could not understand why I did not even get a chance to show what my best baseball talent was, namely, pitching.  My first youthful reaction was to feel that it was just not fair.  Naturally, it was not my fault that I had not made the team, it was the head coach's fault.  I hit every pitch thrown at me.  I fielded balls in the outfield, and actually made a throw to second base that caught a greedy base runner.  I shagged balls in batting practice.  But that damned head coach never let me pitch, and that is the reason, I concluded, why my name was not on any roster.  It was not fair.

The truth of the matter is that I was young and naive to think I had chance to make any of the teams.  I was a 'walk-on' candidate, trying to roster on what turned out to be a state champion baseball team.  The machine that made that team successful had begun several years before on the baseball fields all across our city and beyond.  Baseball was serious business for the coaches of this team. They coached in the senior and junior Babe Ruth leagues, held camps for Little League players to help develop their talents, and even worked with area college baseball teams to help develop their players talents and abilities.

I had no knowledge of all of these camps.  I had stopped playing Little League years before, and never even tried out for Babe Ruth ball.  No, the reason that I did not make the baseball team had nothing to do with the coach's unfairness to me.  The reason that I did not make the team is that most of the guys that did make the team had been working at baseball for years and had earned their spots on the roster.   The coaches knew these kids and had seen them play, and could fit them into their scheme.  Of course, I did not realize any of this then. 

Part of the beauty of being young and naive though is that you can shrug off adversity and move on to the next challenge.  Next to the bulletin board where my name was most unfairly not listed was a sign up sheet for another varsity sport tryout that was to happen in a couple of days.  I wrote my name down and headed off to science class.  Baseball be damned.  I may have struck out on this sport,  but now I was going to strike out on a new adventure.  I had a new pitch to throw.

Trying out

The brochure was so shiny and you could still smell the fresh ink on the pages.  Pictures of happy smiling people, lots of activities to do, sports teams, history, and pretty girls.  For a kid in the 8th grade, I was mesmerized by the brochure for this great school.  I just had to get in.

At our Catholic junior high, all of us 8th graders were being wooed by the four Catholic high schools in the city.  One of the school was all-girls, and one was all-boys.  The other two were coed.  My choice was clear from the beginning.  There was no way in hell I was going to spend the next four years with a bunch of guys snapping their towels at each others naked asses in gym class.  I was still haunted by memories from grade school of all of my male classmates and I having to swim au naturale at the Boys Club every Tuesday.  Just the thought of repeating the scene of being with a bunch of naked dudes in a swimming pool did not appeal to me (I just realized why I quit the YMCA a couple of years ago).   Besides, this school seemed more like a military boarding school to me, and I just knew that I would not thrive there.

The all-girls school seemed intriguing for obvious reasons, but I did not have the legs for the watch plaid skirt, and I knew that swimming naked just did not happen there, even though I thought about that a lot as a young man, but that's another topic altogether, and this is a PG rated blog.

The two schools left went neck and neck in my decision process for a while, but the purple and white brochure just haunted me.   The mascot for the purple school was a medieval armored horseman called a Guardian.  He looked tough and rugged, and had no interest in naked gang swimming.  The other school mascot was a dude called a Nap who kept his hand in his shirt and wore a cape.  Also, the school colors were powder blue and white.  The choice was clear.  What the hell is a Nap?  Powder blue and white? (I know who Napoleon was).

I wanted nothing more than to play on a varsity sports team in high school.  I wanted to earn my varsity letterman jacket and wear it all year round, and hopefully get my picture in next year's school brochure.  I understood that as a freshman that I probably would not make a varsity team, but I was willing to pay my dues by playing on freshman or JV teams.  I was just a lanky thing with arms and legs that looked like car radio antennas, but I was determined.

I went to the athletic directors' office the second day of school, which was located in the basement of one of the buildings to inquire about football tryouts.  He told me that they went very well ... about two weeks ago. He said that if I wanted to try out for water-boy there was a sign-up sheet. 

The next chance to make a school team would be in November.  Basketball or hockey.  I can't dribble, and I can't skate so it looked like I was going to have a chance to bulk up all fall and winter, and ponder if being a Nap really would have been all that bad.

Baseball tryouts came in early March and I was ready.  I had played for my grammar school, and in Little League.  I knew the game, and could pitch fairly well.  I had learned to throw a curve, a slider, and even had the beginnings of a knuckleball.  I learned from my brother's friend who was one of the great pitcher's for that all male high school that I had mentioned before, and had gone on to coach for that school.  There were three baseball teams having tryouts; varsity, junior varsity, and a freshman team as well.  I though that even if I could not compete with the sophomores, juniors, and seniors for varsity or JV, I could surely make the freshman team.

There were no ball fields at my high school.  We were located on a city block in the inner-city.  The tryout field for baseball was over by the airport, about five or six miles away.  The seniors and juniors hopped into their cars with all of their buddies on the first tryout day.  If you knew one of them, you could hitch a ride.  The school did not provide transportation to tryouts, so unless you figured it out, you were pretty much screwed before you even had a chance to tryout.

Not this kid.  There was no frigin' way that I was going to miss baseball tryouts.  I jumped into a car with about ten other kids.  I knew the guy that was driving from the cafeteria.  He liked to throw food at freshman, and I think he beaned me with a brownie about a month ago.  I pulled my hat down over my face and did not make eye contact with him.  I had someone's cleat digging into my leg, and the guy who's lap I was sitting in seemed a little too friendly, and I thought that I recognized him from Tuesday's at the Boys Club, but I did not care.  I was going to tryout for baseball.

After the first day, it was clear that the varsity team was full of seniors and juniors  I suspected that the JV team was going to be mostly juniors, sophomores, and maybe a couple of freshman.  I set my sights on the freshman team.  The next day, the same scene in the school parking lot happened with everyone scrambling for a ride.  Once again, I jumped in with the Cafeteria Kid and Mr. Friendly, and off to tryouts we went.

For my turn at bat, I hit three of the ten pitches into left center field, two grounded through the middle past the short stop, two up the third base line, popped up two, and fouled one over the backstop.  These pitches were puffballs with no real heat on them, so hitting them was not a big deal.  That said, some kids did whiff.  My confidence was growing.

The Varsity coach lined a bunch of us up and asked what positions that we played.  When I replied "pitcher", I was sure that he would be impressed.  "Why don't you try outfield", he smirked instead.  "Sure coach", I replied hoping that he would like my willingness to do whatever he wanted, and would let me pitch later.


I never got that chance and I did not make the cut.  I was bummed, but I knew that I had given it my best shot.   I realized shortly after that this coach was heavily involved in the Babe Ruth baseball league and knew a lot of the kids trying out.  He knew who his pitchers were before tryouts even began.  He had no interest in some lanky kid with antenna arms.  I was happy for my buddies that made the team, and even happier that I did not have to ride in Mr. Friendly's lap for the rest of the season.

So baseball did not work out.   In my next posting, the story continues with Plan B.   Right now, I need a Nap.  Ha!

The Old Neighborhood Reunion

I grew up in the north end of the city.  There were very distinct neighborhoods with little Cape Cod style or ranch houses all neatly aligned along tidy little streets.  Each house had a single car in the driveway, a mom inside whipping out meal after meal for the family, and a manicured lawn with a dog sleeping on it.
Born during the baby boom years meant that growing up, you were one of about a zillion kids in the neighborhood.  If you came out of the house, and your friends down the street were not around, chances are your friends up the street were.  You always had something to do, and were never alone.

Our neighborhood abutted a huge city park with 400 plus acres of golf course, ponds, woods, trails, and playgrounds.  We had basketball courts, baseball fields, a hand-ball court, a zoo, and many other kid-friendly amenities at our disposal.  We grew up in the city, but with the park, we felt as though we were in the country.  The park was our common backyard, and whether or not you took advantage of it's treasures, it was there as a buffer from living in an industrial city.

The friends that I made growing up in that neighborhood have been friends for life.  We were ushers or bridesmaids in each others weddings, are godparents to each others children, and some of us still see each other on a regular basis.  Many of us that live further apart still call, text, or "Facebook" all of the time to keep up with each others lives.  Even if you were not an immediate friend back then, because you grew up in the neighborhood, you are a friend now. 

A couple of years ago, a few of us got together and decided that it was high time to start a neighborhood reunion.  The first year consisted of mostly our immediate-aged friends.  We met at the golf course clubhouse bar.  We shared some food and drink, and had a great time reminiscing.  We caught up with stories of our kids and laughed about the memories that we shared growing up.

Last year, the party grew.   Two of my best friends organized the event and we had nearly 100 people show up.  All generations from the neighborhood came.  People came from out of state.  People that still live there walked up the street to catch up with old friends.

And this year, it will be no different.  The hall is booked, the mailings, emails, Facebook notifications, and word of mouth is going out.  This year it is my turn to organize the proceedings, and I say the more the merrier.  If you know the neighborhood, have friend there that you want to see and want to take part, email me, Facebook me, comment below, or send a smoke signal and I will get you the details.  It is coming up soon so don't delay.

Get the goat.

Poor Mrs. Lasky.  She just never stood a chance the day that she decided to take on my father.  It really was her own fault for sticking her nose where it didn't belong, but this was always her way, and on this particular day, she just stuck it out a little too far.

I guess a little background is in order.  Before I was even born, before John F. Kennedy was elected President, before there were any highways leading there, my parents rented cottages on Cape Cod.  More specifically, they rented cottages in Dennis Port off of Lower County Road.  For years they and some of the neighbors from home would rent cottages in the same neighborhood on the Dennisport and Harwich town line.  We stayed on Division St., the Donabedian's stayed on Arden Rd., and the Mooney's stayed in different places nearby.

Even though they rented the same houses year after year, my parents and their friends took the annual spring weekend trip to the Cape without us kids to rent the houses.  They would all get rooms at the Holiday Hearth Hotel in Yarmouth, dine out at a few nice restaurants in Hyannis, play cards at night, visit the barren beaches during the day and just enjoy adult time away from the kids.

Every fall, usually between Halloween and Thanksgiving, they would venture again to the Cape, sans kids, and pretty much do the same thing.  They all enjoyed themselves visiting places, and dining out at nicer restaurants than they could do with their broods tagging along.

Our summer vacations were usually two weeks long, and besides beach time, our folks would entertain us kids with go-kart track trips, trampoline rentals, mini-golf and driving ranges, trips to Provincetown and Martha's Vineyard.  And Seaview Playland with "The Barn of Fun" was my favorite place of all.  The barn had all sorts of arcade games with one whole room dedicated to Skee Ball.  There was a mini-golf course and a par-3 pitch and put nine hole golf course.  There were paddle boats and an ice cream shack.  We would have cookouts nearly every night, and on the middle weekend was always the massive clambake and lobster feast.  What was great about this was that we had not only our immediate family, but our neighborhood friends as well.

As the years went by, and as things changed different neighbors came and went.  Kids grew up and no longer spent the two weeks with the families.  As the changes happened, so did our summer rental cottages, but not in a bad way.  You see, while Division St. was nice, it was small.  Our next rental was Easy St., for one year, followed by Lawrence St. where we stayed for probably about three or four years.  Each home was nicer than the last, and were actually year-round houses whose owners rented in the summer.

In 1970, my folks stumbled upon a different house.  Though smaller than Lawrence St., this house on Dexter Snow Road had so much more going for it, not the least of which was that the Swan Pond River was in the backyard.  Swan Pond River is actually a tidal inlet that comes directly from Nantucket Sound and runs through a marsh to Swan Pond.  People up and down the river, and at the pond have small fishing and pleasure boats that they use to access the Sound.

My folks had found their heaven on Dexter Snow Road.  They loved waving to the boaters that ran up and down the river.  They loved feeding the ducks that would waddle up to the deck of the house.  And mostly they loved that their kids would all get together on the middle weekend of the two week stay to visit and have the clambake and lobster feast as we had done so many years before. 

There was only one rule that the owners of this little paradise on Dexter Snow Road had.  No Pets Allowed.
Well, our beagle, Shadow, was hardly a pet.  Mom used to cook her pancakes for breakfast, chicken or steak for dinner, and God knows what else for snacks in between.  Shadow slept in the bed with my parents, and had her own chair in the living room at home.  They would take her out for rides if they felt that she needed to get out of the house.  No, Shadow was no pet and Mom & Dad would have nothing to do with leaving her at home for our two weeks at the Cape.  For years, we hid her as we went in and out of the house, fearing that the "no-pet police" would catch us.

                                          Shadow, on the deck overlooking Swan Pond River

So, on one particular middle weekend, my brother who was minding the house back home decided that our family cat should make the two hour trip to the Cape with him in the back of his '69 Volkswagen Beetle.  Naturally terrorized by the trip from hell, our cat, who had never been beyond our driveway back home, hid the entire weekend in the house.  We all made sure that she did not get out, and she was content to stay under one bed or another.

As all weekends do, this one came to an end on Sunday night.  My sisters and their husbands packed up their cars for the trip back home.  My brother packed all of his belongings and put the cat in the travel cage.  As he set the cage down on the deck to gather some belonging from the backyard, the door popped open and Sandy the cat took off.  A posse was formed, the search party spread out through the immediate area, and Sandy was found hiding under the deck.

This is where Mrs. Lasky comes in.  You see, this little old, nosy lady owned the house across the street from the place that we had rented for years.  She knew all the comings and goings of the area, and we use to joke that she was the watchdog that the owners of the properties hired to keep order with all of us renters.  For years, we had managed to keep Shadow's presence from her, as we never heard from the owners about our little rule infraction.  While we were all searching for the cat, she took notice that we were all calling, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."  Busted.

As we were loading the cat crate into the VW, Mrs. Lasky made a point to wander over to get a better look to confirm the feline contraband.  As luck would have it, Shadow the beagle was gnawing on her rope leash in the backyard at the same time.  Mrs. Lasky, in her most stoic, librarian-ess voice shouted out that there were no pets allowed at our rental home.  With his hands fully in the cookie jar, Dad began to explain the circumstance to the little busy body.  Just then, Shadow came bolting around the corner, having successfully broken free of her years of backyard exile.  Shocked, Mrs. Lasky exclaimed, "Oh, you have a dog too!"

Knowing that the jig was up, and fed up by years of wanting to tell the little bitch off, Dad let loose with, "Yup, we have a dog, a cat, and *#@$! goat.  Joe, go get the goat!"  The whole family burst out laughing and I will never forget the look on Mrs. Lasky's face.  She stood there shocked by our total lack of concern for her admonishment, and by our reaction to Dad's hilarious outburst.

We never heard from the owners of the property about our pets, and rented the house for a few more years, Shadow included.  We always figured that either Dad's display that day put the fear of God in Mrs. Lasky, or that the owners of the property cared for her nosiness about as much as we did.  Yes, we got the goat that day...Mrs. Lasky's goat.

So Noah built an ark...big deal.

 I can remember watching my older brother pack all of his gear every February and head off with all the other Boyscouts to Treasure Valley to spend a weekend freezing their butts off in tents that had absolutely zero creature comforts.  He would come home from the trip smelling like a smokey farm animal.  He always said that he had a blast, and to this day reminisces about the winter trip and the annual summer jamboree.  I was never a Boyscout.  I did not have the desire to dress up in a uniform and spend Tuesday nights at our church hall with a bunch of other guys learning how to tie knots, and I certainly was not going to freeze my ass off in some crappy tent in the middle of the woods.  Not this city boy.
I did join the Cubscouts in an attempt to follow in my brother's footsteps.  I can remember that we were given an assignment to make a model-sized boat at home, from scratch, out of wood.  No plans, no instructions, just go home and build a boat.  In order to pass, we had to bring our vessels to the "Cub Den" the following week, and it had to float...and look something like a boat.
The extent of my father's tools at home consisted of a screwdriver that had a broken tip, a pair of pliers that would pinch your fingers when any pressure was applied, and a small hatchet with a broken handle held together by electrical tape, and a blade as sharp as bowling ball. This thing doubled as our hammer too.  Wood?  Well, obviously given that Dad did not have any tools, you can probably understand that there was not any scrap pieces of "hobby building" wood around.
Realizing that I was pretty much screwed, I began scouring around the house for resources.
Hmmm, clothes pins were made of wood.  So was thing that held the basement door open.  Dad had cigar box that was really cardboard, but had fake wood grain paper on it.  Close enough.
As far as tools were concerned, I had the "hatchhammer" to bang in some rusty nails I found in Dad's old 'coffee can of hardware'.  I found a drill bit in there too and used the 'finger-pinchin' pliers to hold onto it while I drilled a few holes in the clothespins and the side of the box.   I used my mother's sewing scissors like a saw by holding them open with one sharp part in my hand, and the other sharp part gnawing at the door holder-open thingy.
I took care of the rickety-fitting parts by painting the whole thing with a thick coat of dark blue, almost black oil-based, molasses consistency paint that my grandfather had used to seal a crack in our foundation.  Naturally, Dad did not have any paint brushes, so I used some cotton swabs that I stole from my sister.  I tried to make-off with a make-up brush, but she caught me. 
I had finished my paint job on the S.S. Disaster on Sunday afternoon.  The Cub Den meeting was on Monday night and when I went down cellar when I got home after school that Monday to get my creation, the paint was...well, let's just say that the palms of my hands turned blue when I touched it.  Ever the resourceful one, I took to drying the paint with my sister's hair dryer (she was still at work).  Not a portable, hand-held blow dryer like the ladies have today.  No, my sister's hair dryer looked like something they used on the Apollo space missions, complete with a hose and the backpack.  I stuck the blue dingy under the helmet, checked with Mission Control, and let that puppy rip.
When I got to the meeting, we all had to put our boats up on the table.  Mike Petredis's ship was a beautiful PT boat complete with JFK's "109" on the side.  Mark Sacco's boat was a battleship with cannons at the stem and stern, and a bridge complete with a U.S. flag.  Jimmy Feeley had a replica of Aristotle Onassis' white yacht with black pinstripes.
And there was my blue righteous refugee raft complete with a cow-catcher door thingy stuck on the front, and clothespins oars sticking out the sides.  Now I won't say that any of my buddies had help with their creations by father's that knew where the Sear's tool department was, but let's just say that I was just a little suspicious.
When it came time to float our boats, JFK would have been proud of Mike's replica, Mark's battleship did perfect maneuvers, and Jimmy's pleasure craft had a happy crew.  When my turn came up, I put the blue box in the sink, and wouldn't you know it, the damned thing floated.  Sure, the water turned a deep rich blue like the Tidy Bowl man had just buzzed by, but the stupid blue box floated and was deemed seaworthy by the Den Master.
Mike, Mark, Jim and a lot of my friends went on to join the Boy Scouts and I am sure that they had great times earning badges and building fires, and whatnot.  Like I said before, the camping thing was just never for me.  My badge of honor in scouting came for me the day my blue cigar box floated just as well as any of the nicer ships in the fleet.  And if you ever tell the Den Master that it was not really wood, or tell my sister how her hair dryer helmet got blue paint on it, I will deny all.

I see nothing. I know nothing.

As I sit here with my laptop in front of me, and my IPhone next to me, while I am watching the Patriots on my big screen T.V., I would like to share an observation, a reflection, and a prediction.
The other night, we took our daughter and son-in-law out to dinner to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.  The kids get out of work later than we do, so we had some time to sit at the bar of the restaurant to have a cocktail, and catch up on our day. 
As people filtered in and out of the lounge, we could not help but notice that all of the twenty somethings could not go more than a couple of minutes without checking their beloved cell phones.  Even as they were having conversations with one another, practically all of them managed to check in with cyberspace every couple of minutes to ensure that they were not missing anything.
One young couple in particular barely looked at each other as they sat at the bar.  Each of them stared into their "life-screens" with that familar blank gaze on their faces.  You know the look.  The eyes are vague and the mouths are open as though they are about to break into an opera overture.  Every now and then, one of them would grunt a syllable, and the other would fein interest and concentration. 
This "time together" was facinating to watch, and while doing so, I thought how disconnected this generation is with what is in front of them in real lives, and more interested in what is happening in their cyber-lives. These portable devices are wonderful tools, but they are also a curse.  No longer are they just convenient telephones that we carry around with us, they are now life lines for us to stay connected to social media, information, and email.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, that I thought about my Dad saying a very similar thing forty years ago about my generation.  Naturally, he was not talking about cell phones, but rather television.  My generation grew up watching television nearly six hours of every day.   Our "cyberspace" was The Brady Bunch, The Osmunds, Hogan's Hero's, Sonny & Cher, The Patridge Family, Charlie's Angels, The Six Million Dollar Man, and so on.  We would stare endlessly into our life-screens of television with the same blank stares that Generation Y does with their cell phone screens.  Dad would like to say to me that my generation was missing out on so much because we spent too much time in front of the boob tube.  Huh?  What's that Dad?  Yeah, I heard you.
So, my prediction is this.  In the near future, Generation Z will not even have to carry around any type of electronic device.  I can foresee there being eyeglasses or implants that will have a constant media blitz of information and connectivity.  Much like Apache helicopter pilots focus their weaponry with their eyes only, these devices will allow us to navigate the internet the same way. 
If I can watch re-runs of Hogan's Hero's on a set of these baby's, then sign me up.  I have to go now, my phone is beeping, the battery on the laptop is about the run out, and the Patriots just lost to the Giants again.  Dad would be so proud.

Fishing for Some Common Sense

I have been giving a lot of thought lately about rules.  We all live by different rules in the many facets of our lives.  We have rules at work, rules at play, rules of the road, rules about just about anything we do.  Go shopping and the rules start the second you hit the parking lot.  Park here, but not there.  Drive in here, and out there.  Get into the store, and there are more rules.  Only three items allowed in the dressing room.  This register for 12 items or less.  Don't squeeze the Charmin.  Rules, rules, rules.
We can all understand that we need rules in order to keep, well, order.  Without rules we would live in a chaotic, dog-eat-dog society.  We need rules to maintain civility, and most rules that are made are just plain common sense to help us live peacefully and in harmony.  Besides, nobody wants their Charmin pre-squeezed.
What got me focusing on the subject of rules is just the blatant lack of common sense that is being expressed in our most important rules of all...our law.  Citing the great  and wise brother of Aristotle, the Philosopher Wikipedia states that, "Law is a system of rules and guidelines which are enforced through social institutions to govern behavior."  To review Civics 101, the laws we all live by are made by people that we elect to represent us, through a process of debate and voting through many levels and approved and ratified by bigger representatives and so on and so forth.  
But back to the common sense thing.  The good and honorable Representative Todd Akin from the "show-me" State of Missouri (pronounced Miz-ooor-rah anywhere east of the Mississippi) came out with the phrase "legitimate rape" and states that in a case of a legitimate rape, a woman's body can "shut the whole thing down".  Now, I am not an expert so I checked with the great and all-knowing Wikipedia, and there ain't nothing legitimate about rape.  Furthermore, if there is a woman out there with these super-human capabilities, well you go get a bright red cape and a mask girl, because the Justice League is in need of a new superhero who is faster than a speeding sperm, and able to stop pregnancy with a single thought.
Obviously, the Esteemed and Neanderthalian Representative Akin covered his tracks when he went on to explain that in the event of a legitimate rape, there ought to be a punishment for the rapist and that the child should "not be attacked".  Oh, well that makes it better.  So just to be clear, in Akin's Mizoorah (which is a spin-off of Dawson's Creek, except that all the guys carry clubs and wear dinosaur skins, and the women wait for the men-folk to bang them over the head with the club), a guy can "legitimately rape" a woman, so that she can get pregnant, carry, and give birth to a child.  Then we punish the rapist guy.  
What's the problem here?  Why is everyone so upset with Akin's logic?  I mean, he covered everything, right?  To review: the rape was legitimate, the wonder of life was protected, the woman got to be a Mom without even having to plan for or consent to it, and the guy got 18 months in prison (actually he only had to serve two weeks with time off for good behavior, and with any luck he was legitimately raped too).
Back to the rules thing, I seem to remember a rule that was made into law back in the 1970's (cough loudly here while muttering "Roe v. Wade") that was based on the 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States that gives a woman the legal right to have an abortion.  As far as I know, (and I did check with Wikipedia) it is still the law of the land.  Oh...the woman...that's what Akin forgot about!  I think that the Right to Life and the Pro-Choice people can all agree that in the cases of rape or other violent acts, the woman has rights.  Even Mitt Romney said so, and he knows way more than Wikipedia.
I have always followed certain unwritten rules about how to treat other people that were taught to me by my parents, my teachers, and all those nuns in Catholic school.  No one has to tell me, or any other rational human being, that every and any person has rights as to what happens to their own body.  It is just common sense.  No one has the right to tell another person what to do with their own body.  If we did, I would be the first in line to say to stop face piercings and ear lobe stretching.  Nobody really wants to look at that or finds it attractive.  We all have certain inalienable rights, and if you want to pierce your body, stretch your ear lobes until you can wear them as sneakers, eat trans-fats, drink Dr. Pepper (yuk), or stand in line to go see a Ben Affleck movie, then by all means go do it.
But for the love of God (a phrase that in all seriousness I do not use lightly because the Nuns would be pissed off at me), can these over zealous, and frankly not so overzealous Right to Lifer's just keep it to themselves!  If this is what you believe, then live it for yourself and shut the F up about it.  If you are really that sanctimonious about your belief that any conception is sacred and should be protected by our law, then why don't you adopt all of the children that were conceived from all the legitimate rapes that happen on a daily basis.  Are you not your brother's keeper?  How about keeping his kid around for then next twenty years or so?   Reversing Roe v. Wade will not stop rape.  Did Prohibition stop drinking?
No Americans had more common sense than the Native Americans.  They lived off of the land and respected nature.  They considered all wild things as gifts from a higher source, and knew that they had to take only what they needed to survive.  They respected life in all forms, and never abused the land.  Different tribes would protect their own, and they tried to live in harmony with other tribes.  The Nipmuc Indians from what is now central New England named a famous lake that is located in Webster, MA Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, which supposedly means  "You fish on your side, I fish on my side and nobody fishes in the middle."  I really like that philosophy.  In today's world, we could interpret this as, "you mind your business, I'll mind my business, and nobody do fishy business", or for the right to lifers "you take care of your body, I'll take care of my body, and nobody wants to stand in a long line to go see a Ben Affleck movie".
 In other words, just don't squeeze the Charmin and we will all get along.

Scully's Catch of the Day

Sometimes when things just look too easy and you take your eye off the ball for just one second, BAM!  Everything goes awry.  Not to indulge in a sports metaphor, but in golf this typically happens when a situation just seems so perfect for a great shot, that the golfer, in his eagerness, picks his head up before striking the ball and totally screws up what should have been a sure thing.  Often times this results in topping the ball instead of getting underneath it.  Golfers refer to this as "sculling the ball."
I performed this hurried shot a while ago while golfing with an old business friend.  He screamed, "Scully's Catch of the Day" as we watched my ball dart across the green and into a sand trap and somehow stopping before it went into the pond beyond.  I do not take golf very seriously, so I laughed outwardly at the result of my mistake (while my Irish temper flared ever so slightly inside) and chalked it off to lack of concentration on my part.  But what stuck with me was not only this new expression, but how quickly a vision of "Scully" formed in my head at that moment.
I remember that suddenly I could picture a weathered Irish fisherman pulling his fishing boat into harbor, let's call it Missed Green Harbor, wearing a tattered white cable knit sweater while jawing on the butt end of an unlit cigar.  His boat is full of fish, and as he pulls up to his dock, seagulls fly overhead hoping for an opportune moment to steal a morsel from the deck.  Deckhands scramble to tie off the boat and begin to unload the cargo, hoping to cash out their load and get to the nearest pub for a couple of pints.  Captain Scully directs things from the bridge, as he shuts down the ship's engine and makes sure that the bilge pump is working.
The local fishmonger approaches the ship, let's call it The Sand Trap, he screams, "What is Scully's Catch of the Day?" to the gruff and gray Captain Scully.  Laughing outwardly, but introspectively agitated, the good Captain tells the fish buyer that he missed a big tuna, which would have been a big pay day, but insists that he will concentrate more the next time and not let that missed opportunity happen again.
This entire vision happened in a flash, and as quickly as it came, it was gone.
I went to the back of the green, and after I had chipped out of the sand trap, I noticed that in the man-made pond behind me was a small toy boat floating near the shore where my ball should have gone in.  Had the good Captain saved a missed opportunity for me? 
I do not remember anything in particular about the rest of that round of golf, other than the fish and chips and the pint of Guinness that I had an overwhelming need for at the end of the round.  I have however never forgotten about my moment with Captain Scully, and try to always keep my eye on the ball.

Merry Christmas Charlie Brown

   Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been interested in how things work.  I thought nothing of taking a radio or television that my parents or neighbors were getting rid of, tinkering with it, figuring out what was wrong with it, and with any luck, giving it a second life.  I salvaged everything from lawn mowers and bicycles, to an antique rolling ironing press and an old table saw.  With nothing more than my memory of how I took things apart, I would dismantle these items, find out what was wrong with them, rebuild the broken pieces, and put the item back together.  Admittedly, I was not always successful in my restoration process, but I took great pleasure and pride if I could resurrect an old broken down piece of equipment and restore it back to working form.
   For me, it wasn't so much about just getting the item working again.  As I took things apart, I learned to admire and appreciate the craftsmanship that went into the design and manufacture of the items.  I learned first-hand and tangibly what quality design and engineering was, and also what was not.  I could see that good design and materials resulted in items that stood the test of time.  Many times I would find that good quality items failed due to one or two inferior parts, or by one poor design flaw.
   The hardest thing for me to do was to admit defeat when I just could not fix something and to actually throw the item away.  Once I did finally throw in the towel however, I would always salvage a few parts just to save for the next project.
  I guess I really have never got past this obsession to fix antiquated items, and I now find myself at yet another crossroad.  I love old cars, and by last count, I have owned more than my share of them over the years.  I am not talking about mint condition cars that you see on the Barrett Jackson Auction.  No, I have always been more of a Charlie Brown character that sees the beauty in the broken down little Christmas tree of a vehicle, and believes that with a little paint and elbow grease, I can turn the junk into a jewel.
  A few years back, I discovered a little "tree" up in the Green Mountains of Vermont via the Christmas tree farm known as Ebay.  Much like the Charlie Brown tree, this little 1976 MGB needed a good home.  So, I took the girls in the pickup truck, rented a trailer and headed off for a "three-hour tour...a three hour tour" through the woods of Vermont.
  We brought her home, I built a shed to restore her in, and began taking her apart.  My thought was that since the girls would soon be going off to college, and my soccer coaching days were about over, that I would have plenty of time to work on this.  And I did do a lot of work on it.
  Well, life has a funny way of giving you other things to do, and my little MG got ignored.  We sold the house in Worcester, and with the help of a few friends, we moved the old girl to the new house.  Now, she was in a proper garage, only a few feet from me at all times.  Surely I would fix her now.
  Fast forward to a month ago when I found another MGB on Craigs List.  Unlike the sad little thing I bought in Vermont , this was the big shiny aluminum tree that Charlie Brown was supposed to get.  It still needs a little tinkering with (which is right up my alley), but it can be driven and enjoyed...so I bought it.
  Now, my crossroad dilemma.  I know that I have to get rid of the old, ripped apart MG, but I just hate to see her go.  It was such an adventure going to get her.  I have enjoyed restoring many of the parts, and looked forward to the day that I got to drive it.  But it is time to man-up and do the right thing.
   So, just like I did with the old radio's and t.v.'s, I am keeping a few parts from the old gem, and installing them on the new car.  I guess that the little kid in me is still doing the same things.  It is great keeping that piece of my youth.  "...And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Sorry about that

What side of the bed did I wake up on yesterday?  This morning I read the blog post that I made yesterday and promptly deleted it.
What had started out as an idea to focus on the nuances of life here in central Massachusetts instead turned out to be a cathartic purge of real and imagined annoyances that I sometimes get in dealing with the general public.  Sort of like going into the confessional, yesterday's blog was a release of some underlying anger that I was feeling yesterday.  Sorry about that.  I really do like your dog, and will buy him an ice cream the next time I see him, and in the interest of full disclosure, I have not been in a confessional since my hair was brown and cut above the collar, the ears, and the eyes just like Father Reynolds liked it. 
I thought about the idea to write about unique sayings and activities that we in central Mass share.  As I left my office to take a ride to a job site in Chelmsford, I decided to stop at the local Dunks to get a coffee for the ride.  I was probably about the hundredth car in line and began to think how foolish it was of me not to have driven up to the convenience store just up the street, instead of pulling into the long line of cars.  For some reason, me and the five mini-vans in front of me are brainwashed into thinking that Dunkin Donuts is the only place that sells coffee.  Ok, don't get me started but when the lady in front of me ordered a dozen donuts, one at a time...verrrrry slowwwly, then proceeded to name coffee drinks that Juan Valdez has never heard of, let's just say that I summoned a few saints and other heavenly beings (I should go to confession more often).
So, I really do want to write a piece about central Mass with  stuff in it like how to order a hot dog at Coney Island, or what is a Chunka boot, and why did Spag's work.  But I need ideas.  Not ideas like I wrote about yesterday, and certainly not about wearing your pajamas in public...have you seen this phenomenon?
Email me some ideas: joes@glplumbing.com if you would.  I would appreciate any help.  I have to end now because I just have to get to Dunkys for a coffee now.
Thanks, and sorry again for the lousy read yesterday.

Boston is a Pesky Little Tourist Town

  On day two of our stay-cation, we decided to spend the day in Boston, not as native Massachusettanians (or is it Massachusites) but as honest to God tourists.  We know the Pike, so we had a leg up on the buffoons driving the out-of-state cars, especially the New Yorkers.  Exit left at Allston/Brighton and shoot up Storrow Drive...done it a hundred times.  But admittedly I overshot the exit and almost ended up in the Jewel of the North Shore, Revere (pronounced Ree VEE ahhhh).
   A couple of years ago, we took a cruise from Boston to Bermuda, and so did the entire graduating class from Revere High and their big haired, and equally big mouthed maternal chaperones (in your mind, loudly scream "RHONDA, I'M GOING TO THE BAHH FOR A BEE-AH AND CIGGY".)  I swear, they should bottle the female Revere accent and sell it as birth control for men.  I now understand why so many males from Revere make the trek to Southie every New Years Day to jump into the freezing cold waters of Boston Harbor with the L Street Brownies.  Firstly, you get out of town, then you numb your body and brain hoping for hearing loss and permanent male under-enhancement, and lastly you are in Southie where you can get a couple of beers before heading home.  If you are lucky, you will contract pneumonia and have to do a couple of nights at Mass General.  If you are really lucky, you will take a left out of Sully's Bar and end up at the Irish Riviera for the night, then contract pneumonia and then spend a week at Mass General.  And if you hit the mother-of-all jackpots, you take a left out of Sully's, a right onto Mass Ave and end up in Roxbury where you are immediately shot at, and end up on Fox 25 News, then contract pneumonia and post traumatic stress disorder and do a week at Mass General followed by a month at McLean Hospital in Belmont.
   But I digress.  Our destination yesterday was Quincy Market (pronounced Faneuil Hall) to meet friends and do any and all things touristy that we could muster into an afternoon and early evening.  Should we start at the Freedom Trail, or the Trolley Tour?  Should we visit the New England Aquarium or the Museum of Science?  How about taking a ride down to the JFK Library along the beautiful and aforementioned Irish Riviera, or board Old Ironsides in Charlestown and pretend that have Boston accents (like Ben Afleck pretends he has in all of his box office smash hits)?  So many choices.
   So many bars.  We decided to re-enact the Boston Tea Party, which really was more about a few tanked up Colonists who got their ideas in a local tavern.  After all, we wanted to get into the spirit of things, so we headed over the the Union Oyster House to get some "idea lubricant" and a few oysters (which by the way are banned in Revere because they are male aphrodisiacs and produce very bad morning after effects, not to mention the urge to jump into a freezing harbor).
   With our thinking caps now properly lubed, we decided to board the Duck tour and visit the harbor (like the Colonists did, not the suffering bastards from Revere).  The tour was great, starting with the bus driver/biker chick that drove us from the aquarium over to Charlestown.  Giving us the full flavor of a true Bostonian, she made fun of pedestrians along the way, cut off other motorists, complained about her boyfriend, and barked out the window at competing tour bus drivers.  It was sort of like The Kardashians meet Orange County Choppers, which when you think about it was enjoyable for both the men and the women on the bus.   The non-English speaking foreign tourists on the bus of course did not get all of the nuances of the commentary, but seemed to enjoy waving hello to the other motorists with a single finger, and learning the pleasant Bostonian greeting, "Frucku-jerk."
   The actual Duck tour was less colorful, but very educational.   John Hancock had 16 children (his wife was not from Revere.)  Paul Revere wrapped the oars of his boat with cloth so that he could cross the mouth of the Charles River in silence before he began his famous ride to Lexington and Concord.  Or it might have been that Charles Lexington from Revere used cloths to wrap the mouth of his wife instead of beating himself with an oar...I don't remember.  But anyway, one if by land, two if by sea and Ben Afleck is the worst actor to come from Massachusetts since Mitt Romney tried to play Governor.
   As early evening hit, we took to the streets of the North End in search of a great meal, and we were not disappointed.  If you cannot find good food here, then you must be a New Yorker.  There are so many choices, so many great aromas, and way too many restaurants to want to go into.  We settled in at Trattoria Il Panino and were very glad that we did.  The food was authentic Italian, meaning that they did not serve the Americanized Italian food like chicken or eggplant Parm, or antipasto, which to an Irish guy like me is like saying that corned beef and cabbage was not invented in Dublin (I simply will not listen).  The food was great, the place was quaint, and the waitress was not from Revere.
We then walked around a bit, visited a couple of local markets to buy some take-home treats, and visited Modern Pastry Shop on Hanover St. which is heaven on earth.  It would be impossible to go into this place and not smile...and gain a couple of pounds...but so worth it.
   After a quick walk over to, and around Quincy Market (pronounced "tourist trap") we paid what used to be a month's rent in our first apartment to get our car out of the garage, proceeded to get lost on the streets of Boston, bid a pleasant "Frucku-jerk" to a couple of Boston cabbies and headed back to the hills of Central Mass.
   Boston is and always will be a Pesky little town, and I will always have been glad to have been there when the news broke that Johnnie Pesky joined Ted Williams for another inning in the sky.  I took away from my visit that Boston has produced so many heroes like Franklin, Hancock, Adams, Pesky, Orr, Yastrzemski, and Ben Affleck.  But to me Revere will always hold a special place in history.  Not only did he warn us that the British were coming, and produced some fine silver bowls but he gave us the name of a place where women can puff their hair as big as the fireworks on the Fourth of July, puff their "ciggies" and drink their "bee-ayh", and forever puff the amorous desire out of the men of the North Shore.