Now that I’ve publicly harassed my friend Brian over those beloved Red Sox, I feel a need to thank him for introducing me to Jimmy Tingle’s Off Broadway Theatre. For years after he left us gradschool pals to head home to the mid-West, Brian came in for First Night. Sure, I complained about being dragged out into the near-arctic climes on the Common to view ice sculptures that I could see perfectly well in the nice, warm glow of daylight; but I also saw a lot of cultural events and unique entertainment that never would have lured me without Brian’s prompts. One year, he treated me to a Jimmy Tingle show in Davis Square, actually bribed me to get off the couch. So with the closing of Tingle’s Theatre, I feel especially sad because to me it’ll always be Brian’s hang out. Bravo, Brian! Adieu, Jimmy! Warmed by the heat of the Twilight Zone marathon, I’ll quaff champagne to the both of you this New Year’s Eve.
Seriously, what more is there to say?
Common sense would dictate that Ipswich Street be avoided like the Common at 3am today of all days, but I absolutely couldn’t resist seeing the pre-Series Fenway hubbub. It was noisy; it was crazy-crowded; traffic crawled along Boylston; people hurried to touch the bronzed toe of Ted Williams’ statue; grown men were strolling around in baseball caps and suits. It was everything a celebration ought to be; for, make no mistake about it, we are celebrating bringing it…our team bringing the World Series to humble little ol’ Boston once again. No matter what, the “Go Sox” lights are up on the Pru, and red and blue lights shine from the Old Hancock. They can’t take that away from us true-Red fans. Ever.
This is for you Brian. What do you mean: congratulations that my team is going to the World Series again, but you’re rooting for the other guys cuz of their “story”? Hunh? Are you just trying to tick me off—me, the least athletic and most unsuperstitious woman on God’s green Earth who sits around evenings (missing Jeopardy, I’ll have you know) in grubby red, white, and blue Boston-themed sweats because I’ll jinx the boys of summer if I wear something pink and girly?! The noive…the audacity… I got Muddy River water in my Beantown-born veins, for chrissake. Some people! And don’t even think about commenting on Steven Tyler’s lips at the top of my blog. Some things are just sacred.
No, I’m not suggesting fried brain as a Halloween snack. My resolution to write a post each week didn’t last long. I love poetry; I’m sick to death of poetry. It’s all my brain is interested in at the moment. Write poetry. Job hunt. Write poetry. Job hunt. At this rate, I’ll never finish the novella I’m never going to finish. Note to self: Don’t make any more resolutions. New Year’s resolutions last year were 1) Find a new career, not a job 2) Finish novella 3) Stop swearing so much 4) Avoid romantic interactions with or attachments to artists and other creative types, especially musicians. So far, so bad.
[After Ed Galing]
The pickles lured us in, floating like an experiment
in avoiding temptation. But the pastrami’s black edges
sealed the deal for me–my mouth already sizzling
from the peppercorn crackles as my father smiled,
winking at the man I always called Ken, a nice man
with a pencil behind his ear in case a policeman needed
two sandwiches, his partner keeping the engine running
outside, outside where it seemed sunnier now that Daddy
and I had white butcher paper full of marbley bread,
jagged, fatty meat, and triangles of pickle. Strange sun,
we only went for sandwiches when it poured.
Football season has begun, and the Patriots are snuffing everyone in their path. I am in football heaven yet again. I will live there, remote and bowl of turkey chili in hand, until sometime next February. However, ever since Mike Lowell hit his jersey number’s worth of doubles last year, I’ve felt vindicated for being a little nuts about him. See, I knew he was more than just a dreamy face, tan forearms, and sunbeam-reflecting silver hair! He’s a man’s man and a woman’s man rolled into one. This woman’ll be chewing her nails until good ol’ Mike has decided where to park his cleats next season.