Meanwhile, in New England

Hey! How 'bout those Niners! My work gave me a pair of tickets to last night's game, despite knowing I was a Niners fan. Figuring I'd never buy tickets to a Patriots game, especially now that I know how far away the stadium is and how bad the traffic into/out of it is, we decided to go, despite the late game and the freezing rain.

So. We bundled up and took the train, followed by a cab, followed by a long walk, to the stadium. While on the train we learned there was actually a PATRIOTS TRAIN that goes right to the stadium, and is run by the MBTA just for home games. It does not have a high google search ranking, obviously.

I'd like to give a report on Pats fans, but seeing as how the only other NFL game I've been to in the last ten years was a Raiders game (I did sit in the black hole, for what it's worth), I can't really say anything. They seemed like normal fans: rowdy, drunk, ref-hating, etc. And I now have a lot of respect for anyone who shows up, game after game, in shitty cold weather. That fog that comes rolling into the bay? That's like summer. Actually, it is summer, but you know what I mean.

It was a fun adventure, to say the least. (But never doing it again.) From the train station in a little town (it could be a major city for all I know) called Walpole, we got a cab and made it to about a mile outside the stadium, at which point we had to walk in due to the one-way, one-road-in, situation. We left before the game ended to catch the last train back to Boston and made it back to the Walpole station, which was a ghost-town-meets-wild-west look. We were all alone with some fog and rain. It was pretty awesome. Especially when the train showed up.

Me, eating McNuggets, waiting to jump the train to Bahston.

Also, it's been two months since I updated this blog. Not coincidentally, it's been almost two months since we bought a century-old two-family fixer-upper absolute piece of work. So I became one of those house blogging people, not for fame or fortune or a book or place in the West Elm catalog, but really because I wanted a before and after chronicling of a ginormous project.

And I started blogging about it over somewhere else because I don't care about traffic or alienating current readers. So this blog sees much less...everything. In fact, it may be time for it to - wait, no. Shhhh. Don't say that, it can hear you.

Follow the house blog. It's way more interesting. There's a 12" bust of Jesus still hanging on the kitchen wall and we found $200 hidden in the basement from 1955 (and blew it on cheese, wine and a Niners-Pats game). Stuff like that...

Soundtrack

This guy has been the soundtrack to 2012. We caught the vinyl bug, like everyone else who gets too many CB2 and West Elm catalogs, and invested in a decent turntable and some new and used records.

You wouldn't know we have a collection of records though, because we only play Father John Misty. Morning. Noon on the weekends. Night. The lyrics in this one are especially...nice.

He's in Boston next week and up until this point, for some weird reason, I haven't investigated his live act. I almost did, but I didn't want to be disappointed. Then, thanks to the wonders of Facebook (thanks Brad), I gave in. And by gave in I mean went down the FJM Rabbit Hole that is the internet.




Glad I did. Can't wait for all that ass shaking. I mean, white people ass shaking. But still.

Investing in My Futures

Futures was a typo and then it made me laugh and then I thought, well, the news I am about to share does involve two futures in a way soooooo.

You guys, I might be about to buy a house. And when I say might be, I mean, if all 13 estates (no joke)  get taken care of (my legal term) and the title gets cleared and out of court and into my mortgage lender's office next week the way they are supposed to, then I will be. And when I say house, I mean a two-family, 3,700 square foot grand old 1880s home. In Boston. WTF.

Fixing it up (and renting one floor out) with the boyfriend will be an investment in either of my futures, the Romney one, where we are on our own and the earth is scorched and our yard has an oil rig and fracking well in it and we are forced to go to church. Or the Obama one where WE ARE ALL STANDING IN BREAD LINES WITHOUT GUNS WHILE WOMEN HAVE ABORTIONS!!! I am so sick of politics right now and most everyone on either side (just kidding it's all the right) is making me question mankind and I am seriously bummed out to the point where I can't even watch J-Stew because he's not funny, he's just right, and how depressing is it when all you want to do is make more and more money and pay less tax on it simply BECAUSE YOU CAN and you don't even know that poor people exist because your "help" makes six figures (actually they probably make less than minimum wage) and you can get a bunch of blue collar voters who make $50k a year to go along with you just by saying the word GOD a lot. Where are the happy pills? Does Romney's plan make those more affordable? Funny, when he was Mass. governor, it did. But for 'Merica? NO. 

Anyhow, the house. It's an investment and will be a huge project and I can't wait to start ripping that linoleum off the floor. There's a great basement for when we have to store canned food and hide from the nuclear holocaust. Stay tuned. Sorry 'bout the rant.

Newport Folk Festival Review

After reading this review (I'd call it more of a long-winded weather report), I felt compelled to jump back on the ol' blog and sum up the Retired Persons Music Festival we went to a couple weekends ago. 

After ACLs and an Outside Lands in my mid-to-late twenties and Bonnaroo two years in a row at 29 and 30, I was officially ready to hang up my festival hat, convinced I'd rather spend $100 on tickets to see a great band in a small space instead of $200 to see lots of bands in a huge, hot, crowed space with a bunch of sleep-deprived, smelly kids. 

And then, I moved to New England, and read about the Newport Folk Festival. Sure, it's been around for 53 years, but you know what? I was under the age of 30 and lived west of the Mississippi. Fiddles?? Anyhow, my fave band and the boyfriend's fave band were both headlining, and there were a lot of reasons it'd be better than any Coachella or Lolla. 

We stayed at my cousin's place in Newport (no, not a mansion). We rented a car to get down there, took our bikes so we could ride into Fort Adams State Park and avoid the hour long line of cars and parking fee. 

We were practically the first two people to get there on Saturday, having zoomed by everyone in their cars on the park roads coming in - also, BEST. FEELING. EVER. In case you haven't been, it really is a fort. They have those in this part of America. Stages are set up in and around the big stone walls. You had to walk through a little corridor to get inside to the quad where a stage and a beer garden were. And on the other side of the fort are the harbor and bay. Sure, as the COS reviewer mentions, Guthrie may not have approved of the rich folk partying on their boats, but they weren't in my way. And that's better than kids talking loudly in front of the band I'm trying to enjoy. There were way fewer of the latter here. 

Hippies selling their wares inside the soon-to-be-full quad of the fort

We saw a little bit or more of Apache Relay, Dawes, Head & the Heart, Guthrie Family Reunion, Gary Clarke Jr., Alabama Shakes, Blind Pilot, New Multitudes (amazing), Conor Oberst (flashback to 2004-2006), Trampled by Turtles, My Morning Jacket and Jackson Browne. And many of the artists brought each other up to help with their sets, which was pretty cool, too.  

The highlight for me was My Morning Jacket's show, but of course I'm biased. While it ended a couple songs early due to the lightning, what followed was exciting: Pretty much the heaviest rain I have ever been in. It started to fucking pour the minute MMJ quit. We were handed a shitty garbage bag poncho on the way out as the whole crowd rushed the exit. We were drenched by the time we got to our bikes. And we rode through the hilly, winding streets out of the park in sheets of rain and through gushing streams and puddles deep enough to be swallow a bike. Halfway home, I couldn't keep the water out of my eyes so I was practically riding blind. May as well have been swimming underwater. I didn't even know if a bike would work in that kind of water. It did. Which was good, because those downhills needed brakes. It was kind of exhilarating. I mean, once you're soaked, who cares, right? 

The "oh shit it's coming" photo

But then it did the same thing at pretty much the exact same time the following night for Jackson Browne, and, well, that ride home sucked. Once in the rain is fun. Twice in the rain and my legs were fucking screaming as I pedaled and I was over it. 

All in all, the crowds were nice and well behaved, the food was great - or at least, one place was. We got the same Greek food both days, but it was amazing. The sound was good. The price was right. And it ended by 8pm each night so us old folk could be home in time for dinner and bed. The most annoying people I saw was the group next to us from Texas (shocker), which they proudly proclaimed as they passed around their disguised booze and lone star bandanas. Another positive for the old folks crowd is that you had to drink your beer in the beer garden - on one hand, lame, but also kind of a great way to control the little shits who get obnoxious. 

The best, most reasonably priced festival food ever

If you're looking for a festival to retire to, this is it. 

Hometown Visit

Does my family know I have a blog? (aka a place on the Internet where I write self-absorbed letters to a few friends, acquaintances, lazy google reader users, and the lost searchers hoping to find their way to something about the Bachelor, Boston, or drinking?)

This is the first thing to cross my mind as I start writing about the family. Well, not about them, but about my time with them.

I took the boyfriend with me for an extended stay in the good old South Bay (the one by San Francisco, not Redondo Beach). He had the pleasure of meeting almost all the important family friends, and he got the stamp of approval from them. As far as I know.

Next week we go to his ginormous and loud (and fun, obvs) family's annual beach trip in South Carolina. They are about 5x the size and volume of my family. I am not sure I will get the stamp, because I am not often loud.

The good news is there will be booze. I may be louder than usual. I will still pass out early.

Anyhow, the first morning at the parents, I joined my dad for a hearty breakfast of oatmeal. An hour later on the way to the city, we stopped not even a mile away from home for tacos. Hellooo vacation.

We spent the day in SF and I'm happy to report I haven't forgotten how to get from Soma to Hayes Valley to the Haight and back out without needing directions. Or hitting a biker. I know, I know, it's all of like, 1.5 miles. Don't judge. I've been gone a long time!

Went to the SF MoMA. It was a nice day to be on a museum's roof. If you're keeping track, that's a museum two weekends in a row. Let's not make this a habit, people.

The next few days were spent in and around the parents house. Did I mention my mom has gone and replaced me and my sister? And I'm not talking about fostering or mentoring or anything like she's done in the past.

Mom decided to sacrifice the next 18 months to the training and well-being of a service dog.

Little did the chair and the shoe know, they were also going to make sacrifices.

Okay, the dog is adorable and my mom actually takes it to obedience school (she has no choice) and I wake up weekly to a new email of photos of it "growing up so fast." It's name is even Nan. Perfect for my mom, Anne. Nan and Anne? Adorable, right? Learn more about volunteering for this organization and get your own really cute dog that you can take into Starbucks in a vest.

One day, the boyfriend, the parents and I drove to Livermore to wine taste. This is the closer, cheaper version of Napa. Closer to places like Fresno. I should have taken more pictures. Drinking brings out the best in me and my mom (who inevitably will stop drinking because SOMEONE has to drive). Fun times! No, really, it was good, and I tried to be well-behaved and it could have been SO MUCH WORSE, you have no idea. The boyfriend thought it odd/weird/funny/scary when my mom and I had our little exchanges. Apparently his sister and his mom are just besties and never fought, not even growing up. I think he was just totally unaware.

Nobody cried, or screamed, or pulled the car over any of the days we were there. Success!

After drinking wine we stopped by my mom's childhood friend's house to drink more and watch the Giants lose. Boyfriend got the stamp of approval. And a cold beer.

Then we had to hurry (and I mean, like, go over 66 mph!!!) home because poor dog had been in her crate for like, 5 hours. Note: Dog spends about 8 hours a night in the crate. She had no idea it was even daytime. Whatevs.

After the stressful drive home from the vineyards of Livermore Valley, we picked grapefruit from the backyard and made fresh-squeezed cocktails. Why? Because it was Saturday!

Pretty sure this was the night we passed out at 8pm. Go figure.

All in all, good trip home but as always, ready to leave.

While discussing tumblr in a meeting

While discussing tumblr in a meeting, this caught my eye. Hard to believe her when she says she loves cowboy hats. Oh, models! So fun! So are meetings.

Some Updates

I've been neglecting the blog, as usual. I think about it, but, like going to see a movie in an actual theater, a day of walking around Boston or a night of cooking dinner always sounds better.

Really though I haven't seen a movie in a theater since Christmas. I saw Girl with the Dragon Tattoo with the family (my mom had already seen the super-disturbing Swedish version...weird). Before that, I saw Horrible Bosses back in July of 2011. I've watched trailers online. But that just depresses me. Here's the thing. I'm not a movie person. And I am not ashamed. I did watch a few movies on airplanes in the last year. Crazy, Stupid Love (twice!) and this fucking winner.

Seriously did you click that link? I'm fine missing almost every movie made.

On Saturday, we took the Bolt Bus to NYC. The bus was late, as usual, and this time it entire thing smelled like the worst dirty hippie incense shop you can imagine. FML. We went to the Whitney Museum, mainly to take advantage of the free admission our membership at the ICA gave us (and we got that on Groupon). I like my museums viewed quickly, on an off-day, with minimal pausing and definitely no Impressionist rooms. Shocker, I know. It's best if they're photography exhibits, too. I mean seriously. THAT SHIT IS NOT ART IT IS A FUCKING SCREW GLUED TO CARDBOARD AND YOUR MOM KNOWS PEOPLE WHO KNOW PEOPLE. Next we walked up to Harlem. For a BBQ. Think about that. No, not Columbia University. Keep going north. We bought a sixer of Modelo Especial - not out of irony, we were not in Brooklyn, this was like, good beer - and got charged $10 for it. I don't care if it's New York, we were totes ripped off but the BF didn't feel like negotiating and I didn't feel like busting out Spanglish at a liquor store in Harlem. La cerveza cuesta menos de diez dolores, si? Si. Anyhow, we made it to the BBQ. Turns out it was in a newly renovated building full of white people. Basically a big international corporation puts their employees up there for dirt cheap. Yay, world.

But the view was nice.

My one year anniversary with Boston is approaching. I wonder what she'll get me. Repeal of ridiculous blue laws? Fingers crossed. Here's my new favorite: You have to order food if you want to drink on any patio. Any. Patio. I guess I didn't do a lot of patio drinking last summer. Forecast looks the same for 2012.

We've been kind of obsessed with making tacos. Probably because the best tortillas are the ones that come in 40 packs and then you're like "Well, what can we put in a tortilla today? Oh, I don't know. ANYTHING."

Mahi Mahi tacos with fairly decent homemade crema sauce.

We went bigger than tacos for Cinco de America Gets Drunk and did it up Tex-Mex style with a block of Velveeta, a can of rotel, and Miller High Life. You can take the girl out of California and the boy out of Texas but...

Speaking of shit that could be in a museum. I call this Queso #3.

Just in time for food-free patio drinking, we are going to California for Memorial Day weekend. How many carne asada tacos can I eat? It's going to be gross.

This Post Sponsored By Your Grumpy Grandfather

This morning I caught myself doing something that made me think, "Oh shit. I'm one of them."

I was crossing the street on a red light, in a break between cars. A car was coming though, and quickly. And I didn't pick up my stride. I (almost) didn't get scared as the SUV barreled towards me as I strode full-ego across the highway on-ramp. I didn't flinch. At least, not physically.

Yes, I was being a Boston pedestrian.

Here's the thing. Everyone has it wrong. It's not the Boston drivers that are bad. It's the pedestrians. The people on foot. Run over someone and their deranged self-importance will most likely total your car.

Granted I don't drive a car here, but I sure walk among them. I've been a passenger in plenty of cars here. I don't see anything out of the ordinary. In fact, I'm kind of let down. Boston drivers all graduated from the Emily Post School of Driving compared to their on-foot counterparts. If I did have a car here, I'd be in prison for deliberately not braking as some Masshole (Hey-o! Regional word.) walked boldly into oncoming traffic when the red hand was clearly telling them to stay put.

It's an "I don't fucking care who you are, do you know who I am" attitude combined with a love of danger and disregard for general traffic order that, for the last several months, has blown my mind. I glare at people as drivers slam on brakes and lay on their horns to avoid the chaos they're creating by mindlessly walking into a major intersection.

Sure, why not go ahead and trot across the street if you think you can make it. Everyone does it. I do it. Save yourself five seconds. But I guess, as time goes on, you realize the cars will stop for you and so you just don't care and you waltz into the street with the "Oh, they'll slow down" mentality.  Until that one time when they're texting and then they don't and then - oh I hope I'm on the curb to see that, fucker.

We saw it the other day when a few people with a stroller were walking across a busy intersection that has all sorts of messed up diagonals and one-ways and generally, it's confusing and hard to tell where cars are coming from. This party of adults plus stroller reached the red light. They started to hesitate, but then, their friend (she was the loudest, obnoxious one also wearing sweatpants) strode into the street as if to block traffic. She told everyone to follow, squaking loudly as cars stopped before hitting everyone. "They have to stop for you! It's the laaaaw!"

Well, true. But imagine if every person in Boston had this mentality and just ignored all - oh.

The best is when they're all lemmings and one person darts out thinking they can make it before the next car and then everyone else just follows without looking up from their texting or Words with Friends and then - brakes, horn honking, and people looking surprised to find themselves two inches from someone's grill. I stand there like, WTF?

And while we're on the subject, let me say a little something about the Boston runners who think they are God's gift to running and can therefor run four abreast on a small sidewalk and play a game of chicken with you to the point where it's not a game and they plow into you if you don't back down. Anyone who considers themselves a runner does it (i.e., not the mom in spandex, but the three fit guys in those obnoxious barefoot shoes). I've never run in a more arrogant, self-important town. SF, LA, Dallas, and plenty of cities I've run in just while visiting - the sidewalk is a two-way road. You stay on your side or move single file to pass. You are not too good to totally disregard your fellow sidewalk users. It must go hand-in-hand with the fact that you don't have to smile at or make eye contact with or acknowledge another human's existence as you pass someone here. The other day I was out running and two older guys said "good morning" to me and I nearly fell over. Definitely not from Boston. If Texas made me soft, Boston will fix that.

No Seriously, This is the Last One

After multiple ACL fests, an Outside Lands, and two Bonnaroos, I swore swore swore I was done with festivals. So why the hell did I voluntarily just buy tickets to one more?

It's only two days. 

I don't have to take vacation time for it.

It doesn't require hours in a car/RV/plane.

It's in Newport, RI. Compared to the sun-scorched but somehow muddy and simultaneously dusty fields of Texas and Tennessee, I think I can handle 80-degrees and an ocean breeze. 

There's no on-site camping, which hopefully weeds out a lot of the uber-hippie crowd and leaves the closer-to-normal-but-just-reminscing-about-the-glory-days crowd. It also means everyone there is in much better spirits. And probably cleaner. 

Also, Kid Cudi and Girl Talk won't be there, so maybe "the people that only go to see them" won't be there either?  Sorry, showing my age. Also, I did enjoy Girl Talk for all of five minutes last year before you realize it's just a dude on stage who hits Play on his iTunes and dances around because raking it in.

The major downside? I noticed when I was on Ticketmaster that it was billed as a "Family festival." FUCK. Children. Worse, their PARENTS.  

Oh well. Still pretty excited for it. Seeing as how almost all music today falls into one of two categories - electro-whatever or folk-something-or-other, this lineup for a "folk festival" looks pretty mainstream. 

Still Here

A year ago today I left work sick, got on a plane, flew to Boston and waited patiently for my luggage to arrive so I could interview the following day. (Interview happened, luggage showed up afterwards.)

I kind of knew that job was going to happen. Weird gut feeling. It was time. This was the one.

So here I am, a year later. Sometimes, it feels like years. But I'm not at that job that brought me to Boston. Which is again weird, but just fine. I was disappointed when I realized it was not what I had hoped for, but then, like before, something else came along. And after a brief "To stay in Boston or to not stay in Boston" I chose the first and here I still am.

My new job is literally next door to the Back Bay T station and more importantly, an amazing taco cart. Laters, Qdoba.

My GTFO three martini-lunch in progress.

Bird in Brooklyn

Impulse trip to NYC to see Andrew Bird do a secret show at the Bell House in Brooklyn. It was an impromptu "pulling it all together" show before they go on tour, and it was awesome. Awesome I say. They played their new album start to finish and then came out for a couple encores of old stuff (including my favorite, Tables and Chairs). Love.

Then we found tacos at a grocery/taqueria and ate them sitting in the store, giddy and hands covered in lime juice. That was the second best part of the weekend. 

Also, there will always be a balding head in the front row. Always. 

get it all hurrrrrr. it's good.

Not That I'm Actually Busy

This is the tumblr I'd start if I had the time/energy/desire to start doing anything else online.

Or maybe, I'd start something called Fuck Your Tumblr. I'm sure it already exists. Go ahead. Look it up. I'll be over here, wanting to buy a turntable.



via

Update: Found the Taqueria

Over the weekend we walked all over Boston and Cambridge. We took every line of the T. No, that's not a huge deal, there are only four lines, but still...we rode the blue line to its end, to a place called Wonderland. Come on, how could you not want to go to a place called Wonderland? Sure, in the winter it's just a cold beach with some condos around it, but in the summer, it's Revere Beach. America's first public beach.

I'll stop here to remind you that everything in Boston is a first.

Most importantly, we made it to Anna's Taqueria in Davis Square. Lone Star Taco Bar still wins in the "OMFG these overly-designed yet simple tacos are delicious" department, but as the name implies, Anna's Taqueria is in fact an actual taqueria with things like "al pastor" on the menu, and for the money, it is the best bet in town. Also, it's all over town, so I feel like an idiot for not trying it in the past 8 months.

Next up, the T stop taco cart.

Donde Esta La Taqueria?

Boston and Mexican food. It's just kind of assumed they're separated by several states and several thousand miles, and a lot of Irish and Italian neighborhoods. I couldn't believe I voluntarily moved to a city that didn't have a reputation for good Mexican, but I did. My old coworker even warned me the one time he ate Mexican food here, he got sick.

Of course, some people have actually moved to Boston from outside the New England area. And some of them have even stuck it out long enough to open a Mexican restaurant. I think taquerias are going to be the next food craze of Boston, so this could be good. 

Obviously I'm not the first to try and find good tacos here, and everyone always has their own preferences (One tortilla vs. two? Rice and beans? And so on). I can't say I've gone out of my way to hunt down the stuff, this is just a run-down of where I've been so far. Thought I should write it up before my standards get any lower and I forget what it should taste like. My stomach will be all, "That is not salsa, bitch. That is bruschetta." 

Qdoba: Food court, convenient, filling. Surprisingly good chorizo breakfast burrito for under $4. A nice change from that "Chipotle" taste that everything at Chipotle has. The fact that it's on my list should pretty much sum up the scene here. 

Border Cafe: The first "fairly authentic in its own Massachusetts way" Mexican restaurant I went to here. Good margs, good fish tacos (in a Boston way), decent chips and salsa. Felt a little like a Chevy's. The downside? (Besides being compared to Chevys - do those still exist?) Harvard Square and a bazillion people. Next. 

Ole: Okay, time for a little rant. I heard great things about this place in Cambridge. Trekked there for my birthday last month - no, seriously, TREKKED. Like, took a bus up to Central Square, walked a mile through the snow to get there in what was one of the coldest weekends here. It looked promising walking in. The atmosphere was super authentic, not hokey. The menu looked really good. Most of the food was really good. I ordered a plate of chile rellenos - one pork, one w/ veggie filling - and what comes back, no sooner than literally five minutes after we place our order? A plate of two steamed, shriveled, miniature peppers, one with a tablespoon of pork in it, the other totally fucking empty. No joke, I cut it open and stuck my head in and looked around and there was nothing in it, not even a seed. This plate was $22 - as much as any seafood plate, and I basically got steamed vegetables and pile of decorative rice. 

The reason this place sucked wasn't actually the miniature poblano peppers, but the shitty service (granted it was Saturday night but come on, is that still an excuse). The waiter basically insinuated I was lying when I said there was nothing in the pepper. He left my plate on the table and went to check the menu - as if "empty poblano" was going to be on it. Done. We finished the whole dinner in under 45 minutes, which was sort of a let down for something I had been looking forward to all week. So, we trekked back to the bus through the snow, uphill, the other way. 

El Pelon: People seem to really like this place. It (re)opened recently a block away. We had a few tacos there. They were alright, but the meat was nothing special and the tortillas fell apart instantly, which is always a bummer. Their burritos are enormous and are probably the best value but their ingredients (lettuce...) are off. Add in the fact that the entire restaurant is the size of a small closet with three tiny tables in it…maybe when summer comes, we can drink $6 beers on its patio? Oh, they don't serve alcohol.

Tico: I got take-out from here once, so I can't fairly judge. Seems like it was "inspired" by Mexican food, meaning they have fish tacos on the menu but they sure as hell don't look or taste like what you think you're going to get. Good, but not going to get the job done. 

And finally, Lone Star Taco Bar. I am going to move here when my lease is up. Not near here. In here. This place opened less than two weeks ago and it's probably making a killing. There are six tacos on the menu. We only got the first three, because the other three  - a "spicy dallas" taco and a fish taco and a veggie taco - just, no. Not when there's chorizo, carne, and more carne. Everything about this place made me happy. (Disclaimer: we were cold and starving and had been walking around Jamaica Plain looking for a new neighborhood to live in so when we finally got here we may have been delusional.) 

We got the last table right by the door, which was perfect because I got to watch a bunch of people stand in line and not move while we ordered Lone Stars and tacos, one after the other, for about two hours. It's your standard price for Mexican food in Boston, but hey, for a place that gets how to cook and season the meat, it's worth it. Also, they have a pretty good beer/cocktails/tequila list. 

Also, there's what looks like a real taqueria across the street from LSTB - I'm hopeful I could have twice the meal for half the price. 

PLS became concerned with how much I enjoyed seeing everyone else wait while we ate endless tacos. 

I haven't been to Anna's Taqueria but I blame the fact that the nearest one is inside MIT student center (hell no). And I've heard the taco cart in the Back Bay T stop is really good. I just have to remember to go.

The good news is, tacos are always better and cheaper than lobster. 

Top 3

Aside from a few Europe dates and the obligatory sxsw, AB officially opens his US tour in Dallas on 3/15 and despite the fact that I don't live there anymore, PLS bought us tickets and it's at the Majestic and I've never been and I'll get to see people who don't have southie accents and socialize with friends and oh my god we have got to book our flight already. PLS rocks.



Can you just hear the gramophones spinning around and around in the beginning?

Not Cut Out for City Life

It's been a week of sleepless nights, thanks to the wonderful residents of Queensberry Street. 

Let's start with the drunk girls who come home from the bar (more likely, their bar job) at 2:30 in the morning and sit outside on the neighboring apartment building's front steps, talking and shrieking with laughter and occasionally having girl fights where they call each other bitches and make each other cry. 

The entrance they sit on is in a courtyard, which makes their sound echo up the walls and right into my windows. So it's literally like they're having their fucking 3 a.m. tea party in the corner of my room. I can hear every word, loud and clear. This isn't a one time thing, either. It's been happening for a couple months now, at least a few times a week, and they stay out there for over an hour. I do not mean weekends. Saturday night parties are fine. But you do not get to smoke a pack and chase it with a bottle of wine and LOL for all of us to hear at 3 a.m. on Wednesday.

Also, I'm old. 

After an hour of listening to the girls (compounded with the last two months of their noise), I was about to go downstairs to tell them to shut the fuck up (in a way that wouldn't get me punched). But instead, PLS decided he would yell out the window. I told him they'd just yell back, that dumb girls like them have no respect for any of their neighbors and that they'd laugh in his face. Nonetheless he opened the window and asked them to be quiet. The result? 

A chorus of "Suck my dick! Wah wah wah! Boo hoo hoo! Shut the fuck up!" immediately followed. Seems about right.

But within a minute, the smarter one got the hint and took her friend inside. They came back outside an hour later to continue their convo. I should note that at this point, I said we should put itching powder on the step, only to be told itching powder is not, in fact, a real thing.

I feel like I should have known that at my age.

Then there's my actual neighbor's abusive boyfriend, or maybe he's just Abusive Bro From The Bar (not sure who lives next door because I don't know my neighbors beyond what I hear of them at night). Verbally abusive, for sure. Physically? Who knows. I've only heard him when they fight, but hearing him once is enough for a lifetime. The guy's deep voice penetrates the walls, my mattress and pillow, and it's really stomach-churning and upsetting, especially at 3 a.m. I wake up because the girl is always crying and whining and crying more and pleading with him that she's so, so, sorry. He talks down to her in a slow, calm manner only psycho people have during fights. Then she scream-cries for him to "stop." (Let's not imagine what he needs to stop doing, okay??). His voice sounds like a robot, James Earl Jones and the teacher from Peanuts had a baby. This voice talks back to her. Then she yells, "Stop, you're scaring me!" and "Please leave!" and sobs. Again, maybe we should not imagine why she's scared. Sorry if this is upsetting you. Welcome to my Friday night. This went on for at least an hour. And all you can do is lie there, imagining what is happening in that room. Or wishing you had some heavy sleeping pills. Or wishing your lease was up sooner than May 31.

That sounds like I just gave my witness's account to the cops. And I wondered, lying there at 3:30 in the morning, if I was going to have to do that the next day. I know this sort of thing happens all the time, from the 'burbs to the ghetto. I guess I've had the luxury of missing out on it my whole life. 

Moving on! Let's not forget our friend Upstairs Neighbor, who clomps around all day and all night. I've already bitched about him. He's the heavy walker guy, but it's worsened by the old, thin wood floor between us. Clearly he's never had the luxury of living on any floor but the top. What an asshole.

I know, I'm so old.

Our schedules are amazingly similar. No matter what time I get into bed, so does he, be it 10pm one night or 11:30 the next. It's like clockwork. I get in bed. Within five minutes, the time it takes you to drift into sleep - CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP. Here he comes. Creeeeak! Creeaaaaak! He climbs into bed, directly overhead. I can only imagine the springs sagging and the floorboards bending upstairs. I say my nightly prayer, the one about him not falling through the floor and crushing us. More creaking as he rolls around. Finally, silence. Until three minutes later, and he's up! CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP. You're supposed to pee before you get in bed, dude! Back he comes and the whole process repeats. Sometimes when my ceiling lights are on and he walks overhead, they flicker and vibrate. It's all so fun. A different kind of fun from Abusive Bro. 

I sound like I'm not cut out for city living, but this isn't New York. These aren't sirens and horns and general city noise. I've lived in other cities. I'd take the homeless crazy of SF over the drunk girls, at least the homeless guy would pass out, move on, or eventually be picked up by the cops. This is just a shitty apartment complex (two of them) full of rude 20-somethings in Boston, which is apparently the drunkest city in America. I wasn't so sure I agreed, but after the past week, I'm in. The bad news is, most every neighborhood in this town is full of (drunk) 20-somethings. Even the buildings who don't allow students have student-minded fucks in them, unless you want to live in, say, Newton. I don't even know where that is.

Also, I'm so, so old.

And in our own apartment, there are the ancient, loud radiators. PLS actually took a video of one making its morning clank-clank sound. The first 10 seconds is the kitchen pipe warming up (normal), then comes the metal pipes clanging in the radiator. It makes that sound morning, night, and middle of the night. We've turned off the radiator by the bed, for obvious reasons.

PLS took the video to the local hardware store where he spent 20 minutes talking about it with the guy behind the counter. "Definitely in need of repair" was the diagnosis. I can see it now: "Dear Landlord, attached please find the video of your radiators making noise. I was hoping you'd pay to..."

Moving's a bitch. But so is not sleeping.

Tap, Tap, Tap. You're Embarrassing Yourself.

That's me, leaning over my own shoulder, whispering "Should I be embarrassed of my hotmail address?"

I have a gmail one, but it's my designated spam account. Will hotmail become trendy one day? Desired for its nostalgic qualities? What if butterflies become the "it" animal and then the MSN butterfly logo (or is it a moth??) pushes it into high demand?

At least it's not AOL, right? Maybe one day email won't exist and we can telepath notes to each other's brains? Yes.

But seriously. When I spell it out for people - "el bee oh es es ay en gee eee... at hotmail..." (cringe) - I think I'm embarrassing myself.  

The only things frozen in Boston right now

Are bodily fluids from drunks and dogs on the sidewalk. Other than that, it was a beautiful sunny weekend here, with highs reaching 14 while "feeling like" -11. It's supposed to snow tonight - you can bet I'm excited.

The windows in my apartment are pretty solid. They may not keep out the loud drunks but I've been impressed at how they don't seem to let the cold in. Until now. Now I can feel the cold air pouring in when I'm six feet from them. I can no longer lounge around the apartment in shorts and a tank top while watching eskimos walk on the sidewalk below. Last night I slept under more than just a sheet. I even wore flannel pants. It's winter, you guys. About time, right? I mean, I certainly didn't move to Boston for the lobster or happy hour specials.

Saturday we made this thai curry soup. It's pretty amazing, and we didn't even have to go to Chinatown to buy the ingredients. Seriously, what would we do without Whole Foods? Besides have more to spend at crappy grocery stores? 

PLS - that's the boyfriend, he's going by his initials here on the blog, unless he tells me what else to call him - busted out the cider and brandy and spices and made the year's first batch of hot cider, a nice way to ease into what would be a nerve-racking Niners game. After cider, I moved on to stress-drinking a lot of a certain SF beer (I'm getting more superstitious the older I get). Aside from the Niners winning, let's just talk about how great it is that they beat everyone's favorite team.   

And, unlike my last place of employment, I have today off. Which means I can work from my kitchen table. #stillwinning 

Obligatory Snow Photo

Woke up to this. At first I assumed it was just a thick coating of frost but then I looked harder and saw a guy brushing white powder off his car. First time it's snowed this winter, unless you count Halloween when it freak-snowed, but that was fall so we'll ignore that. Now's when I start anticipating falling on my ass with every step.

Really, Boston? Is this the best you can do? 

New Englanding

Did you know you can get from Boston to Maine in two hours? This place is so small.

I had Monday off so we got out of Boston, courtesy of a sweet rented Hyundai Elantra. We decided to go north, through New Hampshire and to the southernmost part of Maine. There's a very small part of New Hampshire between Massachusetts and Maine. It  takes under an hour to get across. I looked up places to eat lunch in the small towns around the NH/ME border and settled on one with "lobster" in the name. I know. It's like finding a Republican in East Texas.

We drove through backroads with adorably quaint New Englandy homes, all the way to the end of the road, only to find the restaurant was closed. True, it was a Monday. As we drove out of this town, we realized that it wasn't just closed because it was Monday; no, everything in Maine was closed. Like, the entire state. 

We chose a second place. It took only three attempts to get there. The first two included driving up residential roads that were nowhere near the actual location, thanks to amazing service by AT&T. Finally, on the third try, we found the second lunch option - The Lobster Shack. It's like the McDonalds of Maine - every town has a Lobster Shack. 

According to the search filter on Yelp, this place was open. But according to the closed sign on the door, not so much. In an entire touristy wharf area, only one restaurant, called Jackie's Too, was open. I guess it drew the lucky straw and got to stay in business for the winter months. This one restaurant was full of people who probably came to the little town of Ogunquit, Maine for other restaurants, only to find they were forced to eat at Jackie's. 

I'll go on record now as saying this: I don't really get everyone's thing for lobster. I tried a lobster roll when I moved here (my boss paid for it so hey, why not). Didn't blow me away. Your average chicken salad has about 20 times the flavor. My aunt made lobster with butter. But what's the point of paying so much for something you eat only for the butter? Just drink a stick of melted margarine already.

Despite this, I forced PLS to share a lobster roll since he had never had one. I wanted him to know that lobster was NOT all it was cracked up to be, even when eating it in the lobster state. He agreed that it left a lot to be desired. Or maybe he was agreeing so the car ride would be pleasant.

We left Ogunquit still hungry and headed north to Saco Bay. PLS was set on going there because "It looked nice on the map" or something. We drove through a few more closed towns, full of signs that said "Thanks for a great season! See ya in the spring!" Someone tell the Maine tourism council that this sign should have been up at the state line, not "Welcome to Maine."

Here it is. A beach in Saco Bay, Maine. It was pretty. It has the whole east coast beach thing going on, with the tall wispy grass, lack of seaweed, and no sunset over the ocean (sad).

We spent five minutes on the beach and took some pictures. It had pretty white sand, and the sky was gorgeous, but it was January in Maine and it was freezing cold. PLS put his hand in the water, declared the water "salty," and then we drove back. It was a fun little adventure. I think next time, we'll hit up The Cape. 

Sure Beats Last Year

A couple friends came over for New Year's eve. It was pretty mellow, but the getting ready part was a bit stressful. See, one of the friends is from France. And so, in making appetizers and buying champagne, all I could imagine was this French girl judging the cheese and the booze. She's really not judgmental, in fact, she's awesome. I'm just projecting my own inadequacies.

I thought about making the very-American baked brie with jam on it, but thought it would have been butchering a fine French cheese, so I didn't. Turns out, she had the stuff over Christmas here in America and - despite liking it - was still kinda horrified about it. She was fine with the (California) champagne - no, it wasn't Andre. Though it was served in quite beautiful yellow plastic glasses that are normally only reserved for summer drinks. Like sangria and margaritas.

I was proud that the first time she saw Dick Clark and the ball drop was on my TV. Proud in a "Now you know our tradition. And I'm sorry about it." sort of way. Fuck yeah, America.

Compared to last year, we were raging.