Details, details

This little detail (heh, heh) caught my eye in a Globe story about how the city of Boston might give the green light to more neon signs in the Theater District:

"It would liven things up," said Josiah A. Spaulding Jr., president of the Citi Performing Arts Center, which controls the Wang and Shubert theaters. "It would cost less money [than changing the marquee]. You'd be able to do more messaging, you'd be able to promote more shows at the same time, and you'd liven up the Theater District." He said it costs the Shubert several hundred dollars to change the marquee because the work requires a truck, a city permit, and a police detail.

I knew that Massachusetts was the only state that required businesses and utility companies to hire police details when they tore up a sidewalk or street, but I hadn't realized that theaters were under the same obligation when they changed their signs. If changing letters on a marquee is dangerous enough to require a police presence, perhaps the police unions will support more computerized signs in the interest of public safety. (The requirement for police details could remain in place, of course, in case the signs temporarily blind passing motorists or something.) No matter; the phrase "Times Square" will be enough to mobilize neighborhood groups against the new signs.

Not-so-goodtime Charlie

My "permanent" MBTA pass suddenly stopped working yesterday morning, just shy of two months after I got it. The HR person at my company said he'd get a replacement, but in the meantime I'd have to pay individual fares as if I were a daytripper from the suburbs. This was intolerable, so last night and this morning I played dumb and kept waving my now-useless card in front of the turnstiles, making a lot of noise (rejected cards produce a loud EH-EH!) and getting in other commuters' way until a T "ambassador" opened a gate for me. Thanks, MBTA, for making me a liar and cheat so that I don't have to pay for rides that I really already paid for.

I've given up all hope of a decent all-night diner in Boston, or a cafe open until 2 a.m., or subway service past 12:30 a.m., but this was too much. After watching Ryan Landry's latest spoof ("The Plexiglas Menagerie") at the Ramrod Center for the Performing Arts on Saturday, four friends and I went to Francesca's Cafe to discuss the play. We parked in the South End at 10:40 and walked into Francesca's a few minutes later, only to be told "We close at 11 on weekends now!" (For years, it was open until midnight on weekends.) The guy behind the counter kindly offered to let us order coffee and dessert anyway, but the whole point of a $3 chocolate chip cookie is that it entitles you to occupy a table and chair for an hour. The Garden of Eden, across the street, also closes at 11 p.m. on weekends. Within a block of both places is the Boston Center for the Arts, which has four or five stages for live theater. There is nowhere to go after the show except crowded and expensive bars. If I were part of the BCA, I'd be very concerned about this. I'm less likely to go to a play if I can't spout off about it in public afterward.

Yesterday a quarter fell out of a pair of jeans as I was hanging them up, and as I bent down to pick it up, I let out a "oof"-like grunt. This was another in a long series of horrifying indicators that I might be aging. The sound was so automatic that I couldn't figure out whether I made it because: a. My body was objecting to the strenuous task of bending at the waist, b. I was annoyed at wasting precious seconds of my morning by picking up loose change, or c. I just like to hear the sound of my own voice. In an attempt to banish the first possibility, I bent down repeatedly to pick up 15 imaginary quarters and didn't let a sound pass through my lips. It was the most exercise I had had in a month. But I fear I might cause a brain aneuryism if I keep stifling myself so that I don't have to move any muscles.