If you ask me why I do yoga, I may give you any number of answers. I want to have a sexy butt. I like being stretchy. The pants really complement my cleavage. Were I to answer truthfully, I'd say it's because yoga saved my life. If you take a bunch of hits in a row, say.... a nasty breakup, some weird deaths, and the loss of a family pet... you may find yourself looking for answers. And if those answers come during a quad stretch, you may be inclined to believe that more answers lie somewhere in that direction.
I forget most of that shit on the day to day. I'm sure you do, too. We all have things that we put aside so that we can keep breathing and think that maybe, for just a second, there's no conspiracy out to drive us to an early institutionalization. Today yoga kind of sucked. The instructor at my gym incidentally teaches classes at my workplace, and I thought, "Man. I sure have been learning from her for the last four years! I'll bet I'll ACE this intermediate class!"
Incorrect. She turns it down about eight clicks for the dumpy scientists who don't know how to take deep breaths. I cheated on a bunch of the poses cause I can barely carry my own weight in Plank, and tried not to be self-conscious about the sweat and noises throughout the rest. But when it was all over, and we had had our little blanket-covered nap time (seriously, you wish you belonged to my gym), I found myself oddly... revived. Once I got home, I responded to emails! I apologized to my roommate for being a complete and total jerk! I clipped my kitty's toenails! I drank whiskey.
It started innocently. My soon-to-be roommate, a fella who partakes in the theater in very heterosexual ways, started his move in. Meghan was here, we offered him beer, and, well. It turned into me and Meghan hosting a very low-key whiskey tasting. As in, "Woah! That's a lot of bottles! Let's see if they taste different!" (We also talked about our feelings, don't worry.) Answer: they do taste different. That's all I have to say.
Moving on. We went to Precinct ne' Toast, and she knew a bunch of people there. I talked to the law student married to the MD/PhD from Yale, about a whole lot of nothing. Apparently he was the second-born son, and referred to himself as "Number Two": I really wanted to make a joke about that South Park with Bono as an incarnated shit, but there really wasn't much of an in so I kept it as polite as possible. We shook hands on parting. The band totally kicked ass: when was the last time you saw someone totally wale on the marimba? And during my further whiskey meditations (it turns out I do not like Buffalo Trace, and never want to consume Makers Mark again), I realized the real reason that I continue to hoist myself through class after yoga class. True, the naps are nice. But it really would be great to come up with a way of standing alone at a bar that does not involve a) nursing a drink or b) looking like a loser. There, folks, is my mission. Tips are welcome.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Vote or Die
In the grand tradition of college kids everywhere, I tried to keep voting in my hometown for as long as possible. I liked being familiar with the towns policies and the names on the ballot, and I enjoyed taking part in small town dramas. Or, were I to be more honest, I liked knowing that my vote mattered. When you can win a post WITH seventeen votes and not just BY seventeen votes, it does. Plus, if some jackass with a picket sign accosts you on the way in, you could make fun of their kids in school the next day! Unbecoming of a substitute teacher, but I hear it’s pretty satisfying. Sadly, the town clerk heard from my mother that I had finally moved to Town; she took me off of the voter roll personally, and by hand, and then sent me a little note to let me know.
I dawdled when it came to registering in
I’m still embarrassingly uneducated about
Just think about that for a second. Five years, 35,000 new people. What on earth is the infrastructure like for that? How does city government look upon what is practically an absentee population? In a city of renters, how do you ensure safe, fair, and affordable housing, with landlords who own whole streets and a large portion of the population new to the country and the language? City notifications of all types are not sent to renters, by the way, only to the property owners, under the assumption that landlords will disseminate the information (I have never known that to happen). There was enough to think about that I was momentarily distracted from the delicious pizza.
We learned about dog parks, the arts council, and various ways of leveraging interests into volunteering throughout the city. Like kids? Here’s information on working with the schools. Like gardening? Oh! Neighborhood cleanup days are listed here, and community gardens can be found here here here here here here and here. Really, REALLY like kids? Uh… well. The police department provides a mapped list of self-reporting potential peers! Get on board!
While it was FASCINATING to see the ways in which people can Become Involved, the most informative thing that I learned was that if you ask a guy questions that turn into a conversation, he will think that you are hitting on him and will gratuitously mention his girlfriend. In the same breath as population statistics and police force reorganization. I am going to a start The Somerville Segue/Segway committee, devoted to logical communication, and the legalized use of rechargeable vehicles on the bike path.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Ramblin' (Wo)man
Thing 2 is off The Island for the night, watching some show on Lansdowne Street with her man candy. I hope they don't catch aerosolized herpes, we're low on Lysol. I, too, had plans for a field trip this evening; a pal scored free tickets to Romeo and Juliet at the ballet downtown, but then she took a nap and slept until long after the box office closed. Whatever, I am a consummate rallier. (ie: one who can RALLY. Like a CHAMP!) We checked out Christopher's in Porter for dinner, and were seated in the best seat in the house. Well, I was. I got a killer view from the second floor right into an apartment across the street; there were two people smooching, and I pretended that they were naked. It almost made up for all of the sneaky cops waiting for people to screw up in trying to get to Shaws. I must have seen ten sets of flashing lights go off during our meal. Note to readers: bang out your U-ies in the daylight.
Drinks: we got girlie, fruity things that didn't really pass muster. But then, I'm over "flavored" vodka and under "infused" vodka. (Who isn't. Seriously) Folks in the restaurant industry: it's easy. Drop in fruit. Wait. Charge a million percent markup.
Dinner: Eh. I'm pretending I'm vegetarian of late, in an effort to pay more attention to my food choices. Adding portobello mushrooms to pasta does not a truly satisfying meal make. If I wanted boring and chewey, I'd order calamari. Just sayin'.
Dessert: Bourbon. I'm trying to grow some hair on my chest, and this works better than Old Spice and banging stewardesses in first class. It's possible that my constructions of masculinity are circa 1952.
I got a call from my brother earlier today, asking if I'd like to go to Zuzu for some sort of salsa night. "No!" said I. "I am going to the BALLET!" I am a classy broad, I don't know why this got a raised eyebrow or two every time I told someone. Since the fancy night didn't pan out, my well-rested companion and I thought we'd check out Central, my favorite square of all time. (For those keeping track: 1, Central. 2, Union. 3, Porter.) Sadly, no brother. No salsa! Thing 2 was a moving target, and we didn't meet up before she crossed the river. Apparently Zuzu had some sort of licensing issue which rendered the evening both null and void, but that needs a citation from someone other than one of my family members.
Dawdling ensued. Weird store full of poorly-printed "Mexican" and "Kitch" graphics decupaged onto toilet seats: check. The Enormous Room, which is an E-pium den that smells like feet: check. Blockbuster, for the 4 for $20 dvds: check. And finally, Walgreens, for some mini Cadbury eggs. Check. Now I'm sitting here with rocks in my whiskey (minus 4 chest hair points), chilling with Cat Power, and picking at my nail polish because I'm too cheap to buy acetone. All in all, this is an excellent beginning to a weekend.
Drinking:
Drinks: we got girlie, fruity things that didn't really pass muster. But then, I'm over "flavored" vodka and under "infused" vodka. (Who isn't. Seriously) Folks in the restaurant industry: it's easy. Drop in fruit. Wait. Charge a million percent markup.
Dinner: Eh. I'm pretending I'm vegetarian of late, in an effort to pay more attention to my food choices. Adding portobello mushrooms to pasta does not a truly satisfying meal make. If I wanted boring and chewey, I'd order calamari. Just sayin'.
Dessert: Bourbon. I'm trying to grow some hair on my chest, and this works better than Old Spice and banging stewardesses in first class. It's possible that my constructions of masculinity are circa 1952.
I got a call from my brother earlier today, asking if I'd like to go to Zuzu for some sort of salsa night. "No!" said I. "I am going to the BALLET!" I am a classy broad, I don't know why this got a raised eyebrow or two every time I told someone. Since the fancy night didn't pan out, my well-rested companion and I thought we'd check out Central, my favorite square of all time. (For those keeping track: 1, Central. 2, Union. 3, Porter.) Sadly, no brother. No salsa! Thing 2 was a moving target, and we didn't meet up before she crossed the river. Apparently Zuzu had some sort of licensing issue which rendered the evening both null and void, but that needs a citation from someone other than one of my family members.
Dawdling ensued. Weird store full of poorly-printed "Mexican" and "Kitch" graphics decupaged onto toilet seats: check. The Enormous Room, which is an E-pium den that smells like feet: check. Blockbuster, for the 4 for $20 dvds: check. And finally, Walgreens, for some mini Cadbury eggs. Check. Now I'm sitting here with rocks in my whiskey (minus 4 chest hair points), chilling with Cat Power, and picking at my nail polish because I'm too cheap to buy acetone. All in all, this is an excellent beginning to a weekend.
Drinking:
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Scowling on the inside
I used to spend my Thursdays split between two rad bars. My pals and I would go to trivia at Razzy's, because it was right in between our houses, and then I'd stop into Tir na Nog on the way home. Winning at trivia won a round of drinks. Losing at trivia won a round of drinks. And Tir na Nog? What can I say. It was at the end of my driveway. Eventually I fell in love with Mountain Man Ronan Quinn and rarely missed a show. The Nog closed amidst some drama that I never got a square story on, and the soul of the night was rescued by Toast. Including.... Ronan Quinn on Thursdays. Be still my heart.
Now, Toast had landed on my radar a while back because it was on the other end of the 'Ville (ooo, scary!) and had a dyke night. I lived in Davis at the time, and dated women at the time. Trust me, it made sense. It became a Goth life line when fungus-in-the-shape-of-a-building Man Ray was turned into condos, and such it was again for the Nog, giving a home to six nights of roots rock. My current habits include The Rex Complex on Mondays, cause the barista from Sherman that I like is their front man. (I am known to him, illustriously, as the girl who pays in pennies. Rolled, thank you very much, I am not that much of an asshole.) Then Ronan on Thursdays. And then, whoever else, whenever else. It's cozy. You can play checkers with old men if you feel like it.
But now what! They're under construction, and the fucking home body that I am doesn't know what to do with herself on weeknights. The bar is closed ALL DAY LONG, when contractors actually work, and then all NIGHT long, when there are people who require the services therein. I would even volunteer to help hide the table saw behind a curtain if it meant that we could all, as a community, come together and help keep the beer from going skunky in the taps. Instead I'm just sitting here drinking whiskey, and sexually harassing my three roommates; one of these pastimes is getting old real fast.
Now, Toast had landed on my radar a while back because it was on the other end of the 'Ville (ooo, scary!) and had a dyke night. I lived in Davis at the time, and dated women at the time. Trust me, it made sense. It became a Goth life line when fungus-in-the-shape-of-a-building Man Ray was turned into condos, and such it was again for the Nog, giving a home to six nights of roots rock. My current habits include The Rex Complex on Mondays, cause the barista from Sherman that I like is their front man. (I am known to him, illustriously, as the girl who pays in pennies. Rolled, thank you very much, I am not that much of an asshole.) Then Ronan on Thursdays. And then, whoever else, whenever else. It's cozy. You can play checkers with old men if you feel like it.
But now what! They're under construction, and the fucking home body that I am doesn't know what to do with herself on weeknights. The bar is closed ALL DAY LONG, when contractors actually work, and then all NIGHT long, when there are people who require the services therein. I would even volunteer to help hide the table saw behind a curtain if it meant that we could all, as a community, come together and help keep the beer from going skunky in the taps. Instead I'm just sitting here drinking whiskey, and sexually harassing my three roommates; one of these pastimes is getting old real fast.
Intro - the other blogger of the blog.
So, I'm the other one. I stay out late and see the dark side (not at star wars reference(more of a reference to night time)) I like the night life (Totally a cars reference) and if you still don’t know what I’m talking about I’m writing this at 8 am. No I haven’t slept and Yes, this is normal for me and most Somerbridgians.
The music scene defines the island. It is an incestuous group of about 50 musicians who are all geniuses. I’ve lived in Boston for a while and was married to a sound engineer who ran the Roxy and the free shows in Copley (pronounced cop-LEE), sometimes the middle east and so on. I saw my fair share of awesum music at an early age. I moved to Cambridge after being sick of taking 30 dollar cab rides to get home off the island (to JP, Boston, etc, anywhere off the island back to boston, you have to cross the water, it’s kinda an island).
Let me tell you exactly what the island is…
It is Cambridge, more so Cambridge/Somerville (somerbridge, (camberville for N00bs)) art and music life. It is full of people too socially aware to move to new york and too socially active to move to the sticks. It is the music hub of the east, hands down, name another town… closest shit like this is Nashville. New york is full of dreamers, Somerbridge is full of people who are living the dream. There are several music venues, usually disguised as little irish bars, that house the coolest fuckin funk, rock, folk, blues and jazz you’ve ever heard. And if you haven’t been impressed by live music, you have to see it up close. Literally, you are face to face with the musicians and half the time they don’t care if you get up there with them, if you can sing (Plough and Stars, Johnny D’s, Club Passim, Lizard Lounge, Toad, Toast, (Cantab sumtimes), The Burren (don’t go there when they got those terrible cover bands, eek)) And if you are in the mood for dancing like a drunken rock star, head over to central sq and lose your dignity.
As for the weekly dig, I fucking hate that newspaper, if I can even call it that, im gonna call it a rag, and say that they only project their shit to out of town (no offence and welcome) college kids who are absorbed into their culture which sucks. I like the Phoenix because they give decent, thorough reviews and they know whats happening. The dig is shallow, in the literal term, its like being like dude, how was that show and the dig is like, oh shit it was ok, you know the guitarist was allright and the phoenix is like, oh shit dude, let me write more than 200 words about that shit, shit we always write at least 500 and are good writers and not a bunch of interns from Emerson who are afraid of eachother (to the interns: this is art: love it - don’t listen to your peers they are there to destroy you) (oh yeah I just said that). All in all the Phoenix is a smart kids shit, has better comix too…less ads, actually tells you shit. I will be writing a weekly thing on how much the “weekly” weekly dig sucks cow assholes (they never gave me a t-shirt), it comes to Somerbridge on Thursdays, (they never talk about anything other than Alston anyhow) so that’s when my own rendition of “Oh Cruel Dig” will begin. Fuck you, weekly dig.
::sigh::I’ve lived here for a while now, and I notice that the gems, in people, in music and good times are hidden like all good shiny gems. Most are on the island. Where everyone knows each other, everyone is happy and everyone is a late night late nighter… it’s beautiful here.
This is the place to hear the best fuckin live music you’ve ever seen, I mean heard. Once in a while I’ll go to a club in fenway or something and try to dance (usually successfully, I am a good dancer) to the club PA music, which is like today’s top 20 hits about booze and booty (what happened to heartbreak and hitchhiking?), which I fell out of 5 years ago, and I’m like dude, where’s the mandolin? (im 25)
Let me give you an idea of the end of the night:
I just took a cab home from watertown and I like to talk to cab drivers, so I asked him if he had a family, he said no. I said oh.
He said he was engaged but his fiancé died of a brain tumor and some how we started talking about how death in our lives have made us happier and more aware people. You meet and talk to the born and bred (you can pretty much be indicted like a Buddhist monk) people have the same attidute over here. They never leave the island, because everything you need is here. They are usually, "transplants" as well but they are here on some kind of pilgrimage.It's almost beautiful.
People
Music
Harvard?
Best restaurants in new England
But that’s also weird, in between this amazing music scene are some of the smartest people in the world. I wish to project to you (me and my associate are both incredibly brilliant (I have a degree in English and she in chemistry and visual arts(im working on my second in web design)) so please take our word for it. This place is one of a kind and deserves writing about by the weirdo geniuses that make it up. Especially in this time of change here. Hopefully david brooks is wrong and the bobos will stay out of here and the artists will be prolific with happiness.
Welcome to Somerbridge. I love you.
The music scene defines the island. It is an incestuous group of about 50 musicians who are all geniuses. I’ve lived in Boston for a while and was married to a sound engineer who ran the Roxy and the free shows in Copley (pronounced cop-LEE), sometimes the middle east and so on. I saw my fair share of awesum music at an early age. I moved to Cambridge after being sick of taking 30 dollar cab rides to get home off the island (to JP, Boston, etc, anywhere off the island back to boston, you have to cross the water, it’s kinda an island).
Let me tell you exactly what the island is…
It is Cambridge, more so Cambridge/Somerville (somerbridge, (camberville for N00bs)) art and music life. It is full of people too socially aware to move to new york and too socially active to move to the sticks. It is the music hub of the east, hands down, name another town… closest shit like this is Nashville. New york is full of dreamers, Somerbridge is full of people who are living the dream. There are several music venues, usually disguised as little irish bars, that house the coolest fuckin funk, rock, folk, blues and jazz you’ve ever heard. And if you haven’t been impressed by live music, you have to see it up close. Literally, you are face to face with the musicians and half the time they don’t care if you get up there with them, if you can sing (Plough and Stars, Johnny D’s, Club Passim, Lizard Lounge, Toad, Toast, (Cantab sumtimes), The Burren (don’t go there when they got those terrible cover bands, eek)) And if you are in the mood for dancing like a drunken rock star, head over to central sq and lose your dignity.
As for the weekly dig, I fucking hate that newspaper, if I can even call it that, im gonna call it a rag, and say that they only project their shit to out of town (no offence and welcome) college kids who are absorbed into their culture which sucks. I like the Phoenix because they give decent, thorough reviews and they know whats happening. The dig is shallow, in the literal term, its like being like dude, how was that show and the dig is like, oh shit it was ok, you know the guitarist was allright and the phoenix is like, oh shit dude, let me write more than 200 words about that shit, shit we always write at least 500 and are good writers and not a bunch of interns from Emerson who are afraid of eachother (to the interns: this is art: love it - don’t listen to your peers they are there to destroy you) (oh yeah I just said that). All in all the Phoenix is a smart kids shit, has better comix too…less ads, actually tells you shit. I will be writing a weekly thing on how much the “weekly” weekly dig sucks cow assholes (they never gave me a t-shirt), it comes to Somerbridge on Thursdays, (they never talk about anything other than Alston anyhow) so that’s when my own rendition of “Oh Cruel Dig” will begin. Fuck you, weekly dig.
::sigh::I’ve lived here for a while now, and I notice that the gems, in people, in music and good times are hidden like all good shiny gems. Most are on the island. Where everyone knows each other, everyone is happy and everyone is a late night late nighter… it’s beautiful here.
This is the place to hear the best fuckin live music you’ve ever seen, I mean heard. Once in a while I’ll go to a club in fenway or something and try to dance (usually successfully, I am a good dancer) to the club PA music, which is like today’s top 20 hits about booze and booty (what happened to heartbreak and hitchhiking?), which I fell out of 5 years ago, and I’m like dude, where’s the mandolin? (im 25)
Let me give you an idea of the end of the night:
I just took a cab home from watertown and I like to talk to cab drivers, so I asked him if he had a family, he said no. I said oh.
He said he was engaged but his fiancé died of a brain tumor and some how we started talking about how death in our lives have made us happier and more aware people. You meet and talk to the born and bred (you can pretty much be indicted like a Buddhist monk) people have the same attidute over here. They never leave the island, because everything you need is here. They are usually, "transplants" as well but they are here on some kind of pilgrimage.It's almost beautiful.
People
Music
Harvard?
Best restaurants in new England
But that’s also weird, in between this amazing music scene are some of the smartest people in the world. I wish to project to you (me and my associate are both incredibly brilliant (I have a degree in English and she in chemistry and visual arts(im working on my second in web design)) so please take our word for it. This place is one of a kind and deserves writing about by the weirdo geniuses that make it up. Especially in this time of change here. Hopefully david brooks is wrong and the bobos will stay out of here and the artists will be prolific with happiness.
Welcome to Somerbridge. I love you.
An Overdue Letter
One of the main differences between me and my illustrious co-blogger here is our choice of free "Boston" weeklies. Me? I like The Dig. Spit, vitriol, and tallies go a long way with me, even if it gets to Union a day late. She, on the other hand, prefers The Phoenix, I guess because she enjoys journalism of some sort. Whatever.
The Dig has a feature that melts my heart called, for you folks who get all of your shiny covers confused, "Oh Cruel World." It involves someone complaining about something. Didn't get tipped? Complain. Got bad service because you didn't tip? Complain. Someone farted in your face while you were sitting on a packed B train? You get the picture. Now, I had planned a LOVELY note for my first foray into this expressive medium, about a new shop I found to be absurdly out of character with our neighborhood. Watch me cheat on my very first entry here, while I recount to you the drafted letter:
"Dear Owners of the new 'home goods' store around the corner,
I love small businesses, generally, and on principal. My dear roommate and I were excited to check out the shiny new shop that you have recently opened here in my beloved Union Square. We held our breaths, and went in. Oh, the silk screened tshirts. Ah, the soaps that cost as much as a weeks worth of groceries at Market Basket. Gosh. The... sticks with fake birds on them. Whatever, it's 'art', welcome to the neighborhood, blah blah blah. We tried really hard to take it all in stride, to see you as the unique flower you so obviously are, with the huge horse vinyl wall art to prove it. But then you had to go and say that your shop attracts rich white hipsters because you, and I quote, 'Don't do nails'. FUCK YOU, you god damned jackass. The only reason you're on the island in the first place is because you're trying to sell the *bowel movements* of every design blog on the internet, and will never be successful enough to pay rent in the South End. And by the way, those plastic matryoshka doll plates are already on clearance at Urban Outfitters."
This week, The Dig gave them a blowjob of a review. "Burgeoning". Please. Blow it out your ass. How severely disappointing.
The Dig has a feature that melts my heart called, for you folks who get all of your shiny covers confused, "Oh Cruel World." It involves someone complaining about something. Didn't get tipped? Complain. Got bad service because you didn't tip? Complain. Someone farted in your face while you were sitting on a packed B train? You get the picture. Now, I had planned a LOVELY note for my first foray into this expressive medium, about a new shop I found to be absurdly out of character with our neighborhood. Watch me cheat on my very first entry here, while I recount to you the drafted letter:
"Dear Owners of the new 'home goods' store around the corner,
I love small businesses, generally, and on principal. My dear roommate and I were excited to check out the shiny new shop that you have recently opened here in my beloved Union Square. We held our breaths, and went in. Oh, the silk screened tshirts. Ah, the soaps that cost as much as a weeks worth of groceries at Market Basket. Gosh. The... sticks with fake birds on them. Whatever, it's 'art', welcome to the neighborhood, blah blah blah. We tried really hard to take it all in stride, to see you as the unique flower you so obviously are, with the huge horse vinyl wall art to prove it. But then you had to go and say that your shop attracts rich white hipsters because you, and I quote, 'Don't do nails'. FUCK YOU, you god damned jackass. The only reason you're on the island in the first place is because you're trying to sell the *bowel movements* of every design blog on the internet, and will never be successful enough to pay rent in the South End. And by the way, those plastic matryoshka doll plates are already on clearance at Urban Outfitters."
This week, The Dig gave them a blowjob of a review. "Burgeoning". Please. Blow it out your ass. How severely disappointing.
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