Thick as a brick

I noticed several piles of these bricks on the Cambridge Street side of the Hurley Building in Boston. Isn't this like naming your product Titanic Rivets or John Hancock Tower Windows? Yet these brickmakers proudly associate themselves with the worst public space in the world. Speaking of bricks, I was disappointed to see this in Davis Square this morning: This looked like it was going to be an interesting building before they started to add the brick veneer. I'd rather that they leave the blue wrapping paper exposed. But I guess Cotton Mather once warned against brightly colored buildings, so that's not an option.

My version of driving a Hummer

How many people must I talk to before downing my morning Red Bull? There was already “Nine O’Clock Guy” Guy at my subway stop, who has lately been asking me what the weather’s like above ground -- adding to my suspicion that he sleeps, mummy-like, in a Charlie Ticket dispenser after the T shuts down. Now there’s a chirpy young woman at the sign-in desk in my office building who asks how my weekend was and did I see the Duck Tour go by and how about those Red Sox and Zzzzzz.... The worst thing is that when I wait for the express elevator, she helpfully points out that there’s room in the local elevator (I can take either). Look, I don’t drive a car, I don’t have central air-conditioning in my apartment, and I don’t shoot little varmints. My worst environmental offense is making that express elevator go up or down 11 floors so that I can have a private ride. I don’t want to know what the lower-floor people talk about, and I don’t want to know what they smell like at the beginning or at the end of their workdays. By the way, anyone who wants to get into the building without signing in just uses the basement entrance.

Hugh Laurie fan club

Several opinions on what's right and wrong about House here.

I am a sadist

Why else would I continue to watch House, MD and pray for the patient of the week to die? It could be that the show has a great lead character and sporadically interesting dialogue. Too bad all the patients remind me of how formulaic the show is. If House can never be wrong, I'd settle for a plane crashing into the hospital and decapitating someone that the good doctor has just saved. Oh, wait, that's every other episode of ER. I will say something nice about The Riches, though. The next-to-last episode of the first season was a great one, with Eddie Izzard and his brood on the verge of being exposed as imposters by as many as five different characters. (I'm counting Grandma and Doug's office assistant.) Assuming that everything isn't back to "normal" at the end of the season finale, I'll be coming back next year.

No more skin in the South End

Just two days after learning that I can’t get cannolis in Davis Square, I discovered today that skin flicks are no longer welcome in the South End. Bay Windows reports that the Movie Place is closing after two decades, leaving Tremont Street virtually bereft of queer commerce. According to the article by Linda Rodriguez, videostore owner Mark Adams feels that the neighborhood has become too straight and too family-oriented to stay. (“Though [Adams] says he never heard complaints directly about his business, which sometimes featured gay-themed pornographic magazines in the window, he did say that through the neighborhood grapevine, he understood that some neighbors were not pleased with the business.”) The last purchase I made at the Movie Place was a couple of years ago, for a catalogue of porn videos. (I find that the plot descriptions provide hours of amusement on a cold winter nights, without bothering roommates or neighbors.) Adams made a valiant effort to keep the rainbow flag hanging in the South End for years after the area’s only gay bookstore, We Think the World of You, closed. But it didn’t help that the Marquis de Sade — let’s just call it a purveyor of bedroom sundries — also abandoned the South End, moving to the Leather District. Of course, this is one less advertiser for the local gay press, but Bay Windows may get by without it. I counted four ads in the current issue from businesses touting their South End locations: a massage therapist and three psychotherapists. Maybe they specialize in the feeling that your neighbors are out to get you.

No more zeppole: La Contessa sings

Another neighborhood bakery sells its last tart. This time it's in Davis Square, as reported by the Globe's Peter DeMarco:

...at La Contessa, which is closing after nearly 50 years in business, tradition was everything. A statue of St. Anthony stood watch over the counter, even as hip restaurants and Internet cafes opened around the corner. Magliaro, who retired in 2000, learned his trade in the North End during the Depression and never changed a recipe. During holidays, window signs would advertise specials like zeppole or pizza chiena that only a true Italian would recognize.

I have to confess some guilt here: I went to the Contessa only about three times in five years, and I'll probably go to the sushi bar that's replacing it a couple of times a week. But as DeMarco points out, baked goods aren't as popular as they used to be. When I'm not bringing liquor to a friend's house or to a party, I usually bring cheese, olives, or some kind of appetizer (often from Dave's Fresh Pasta, which has become a neighborhood hangout in the same way that bakeries and soda fountains used to be). The same people who refuse dessert on dietary principle are often too hungry to pass up appetizers, so decadent foods have migrated to the first course of the evening. It's rather sad when one has to trick acquaintances into enjoying themselves.

Netflix pix: TV shows

This isn't the most accurate map in the world, but it was fun to make. I took the six most popular TV series currently on Netflix and used the "local favorites" feature to get an idea of where each show gets its audience (looking at major cities and other communities in each state). The thriller 24 is big in the South, The Sopranos seems most popular in the East, and Band of Brothers has a fan base in the West. The Office is popular in Illinois and Michigan; does this mean that these states are moving toward white-collar economies, or that people there simply identify with dead-end jobs?

Gay nightlife in Boston will leave you in stitches

The Media Farm column in the current Weekly Dig offers a suggestion for the struggling gay newspaper IN Newsweekly:

If the Farm were prone to speculation, we’d say now would be a great time for IN’s corporate parent, HX Media, to put the thing out of its misery and relaunch it as a glossy free gay nightlife guide, like the ones they have in New York and Philly. Not that anyone asked us or anything.

Great idea ... except that there is no gay nightlife in Boston. There are only seven bars in Boston and Cambridge that are gay every night of the week, and one of them (Jacques) closes at midnight at the insistence of Bay Village residents who apparently didn't notice the place was there until after they bought their condos. So it's not clear where the advertising revenue for a new glossy magazine would come from. How about Home Depot, the MBTA, and hospitals? Those are among the most popular places to meet gay men, at least according to the "Missed Connections" section of craigslist. (Sample entries: "You are a cute neurosurgeon at Baptist hospital today" and "You were the cute guy walking into Dana Farber.") In other major cities, you can go bar-hopping. In Boston, the best way to meet a guy on a Saturday night is to buy a nail gun, shoot your foot, and ride the Red Line to the emergency room at Mass General.

Signs of Davis Square: Apostrophe police

One lucky boy in West Somerville has the privilege of getting his hair cut in an otherwise over-18 establishment. Either that or it's the local custom for men to patronize Alibrandis in groups and get identical comb-overs simultaneously, something that minors are not allowed to participate in. I wouldn't know, since I shlep to the South End for my haircuts and pretend, for one half-hour a month, that I still live on Columbus Ave. and that straight couples are still afraid to raise children there. This really is one of the last signs of Old Somerville -- or, at least, one of the last signs above a business that actually seems to have a steady clientele. How long before it gets a wussy makeover like the Sligo Pub?

Deep fried Oreos

Last Saturday in New York, I came across one of the generic street fairs at which you can buy tube socks, earrings, and baby clothes without going through the hassle of pushing open a door and standing under a roof. (The rain just adds to the fun!) Thankfully, there were also local food specialties, so I tried my first deep-fried Oreos (three for $4). They weren’t bad. The crème filling was undetectable, but the chocolate cookie had become a relatively light, cake-like center to what would have otherwise been a hunk of fried dough. The whole thing was like a trailer-trash version of a chocolate croissant. The one ingredient I could have done without was the heavy dusting of powdered sugar, most of which ended up all over my “microsuede” jacket.

Baby names: See Emily Fade

And here are the girls. Did America have a bad reaction to Emily Blunt last year? I don't know why it's falling out of favor, but maybe it's just falling victim to Madison's march across the South. (Is Dolley Madison back in style? Or are parents hoping that another hotel-related name will prevent their children from going the way of Paris Hilton?) Meanwhile, Ava's empire has spread from Minnesota to five other states, including Massachusetts, and Isabella seems to have busted out in states with large Hispanic populations, from New Jersey to New Mexico.

Baby names for boys: Gesundheit

Just a few weeks after I posted maps on the most popular baby names by state, the Social Security Administration released data for 2006. Note that William still reigns in the South and nowhere else (picking up Arkansas from last time), and that Jacob is still big in all regions except the South. I don't know where Landon and Logan came from; are they TV characters? Massachusetts is insistent that Matthew Broderick/Fox/McCaughney is an ideal name, but no one else agrees. It's probably a coincidence that Massachusetts is the only state with gay marriage and Matt is the most popular gay porn name from this list (Isaiah and Jacob don't show up much, and Bill reeks of straightness). Maybe people who live in Massachusetts simply have a fondness for words that sound like sneezes.

The Sopranos: I Dream of Tony

Over the past eight years, I’ve had several dreams — that I remember — inspired by The Sopranos. (Not surprising; I’ve been in bed with hundreds of political leaders, alternative rock musicians, and Dr. Ruth Westheimer, thanks to my habit of falling back asleep after my clock radio switches on to National Public Radio.) In nearly every Sopranos dream, I have some kind of relationship with Tony, but I have never figured out what the heck it is. I only know that I’m under his protection but uneasy about it. These dreams seem important in the light of Sunday’s episode, in which Tony tries to be a better parent than the ones who raised him. In the case of A.J. (I won’t spoil), he’s fairly helpless, just like most parents in the real world. But when Meadow is verbally harassed by a member of Phil’s crew, Tony uses his prerogative to nearly kill the guy — specifically, by curb stomping him, in one of the most disturbing acts of violence during the entire series. Predictably, many of the commenters on Sopranos-related blogs say that Tony was justified in this case, but they are simply indulging in the fantasy of being a member of Tony’s crew (as I apparently have in my sleep). Given all that was written about last week’s episode (“Heidi and Kennedy”), I was surprised not to see any mention of the shot in which Tony, relaxing in Las Vegas, is wearing an emperor-type robe and we see the sign for Caesar’s Palace framed by the window of his hotel room. He may not be as far gone as Caligula, but Tony is now deluding himself into thinking he’s a kind of god: Everything he does — including his treatment of Christopher — is, by definition, for the common good. Further, any sign of disrespect toward him is, by definition, deserving of violent punishment. (And remember, both The Sopranos and I, Claudius have monster mothers named Livia.) I don’t know what else is going to happen, but I’m convinced that Tony is going to tell Carmela about every murder he’s committed, not out of guilt but out of pride.

Kamikaze roll: sushi to end all sushi

I had to order the kamikaze roll, especially because the menu at Sushi Bonsai, on St-Zotique in Montreal, did not have the customary warning about the dangers of eating uncooked fish. But there was nothing suicidal about the spicy mayo, and the crumbs of tempura batter added a very pleasant texture to the usual seaweed, fish, rice, and avacado. (I suppose you could pretend you’re eating ground glass if you really want to get into the spirit of the name.) I do know that just a little bit of fat or grease can make a light meal seem more satisfying. In this case, there’s barely anything unhealthy added, but I know I’d have sushi for lunch more often if I could get this smidgen of fried goodness with it. Sadly, there was no Russian roulette roll with caviar. There was something called a Boston roll, which incongruously had crabstick in it. That should be a Baltimore roll, and Boston should get scallops. The baked beans can go on the side – or, better yet, out the back door and on the next bateau lent to China.

The Sopranos: A psychological experiment — on YOU

I’m now convinced that The Sopranos is an eight-year experiment in testing the limits of people who insist on attributing positive traits to the central character in any work of fiction. After the pivotal “Heidi and Kennedy” episode aired this Sunday, former Sopranos regular Vinny Pastore told the New York Post, “As a viewer, I didn’t appreciate the way Tony [spoiler removed here for the benefit of you cheapskates waiting to rent the DVDs]. It made me, as a viewer, not like Tony.” Apparently, Pastore was OK with Tony killing Pastore’s character, Big Pussy, four seasons ago for giving information about the Mafia to the feds. (Kids, always remember what Uncle Vinny says: Rats deserve to get whacked!) On the message boards at Television Without Pity and Entertainment Weekly (no live link), some fans are even excusing Tony by saying that he committed a mercy killing. Boy, there are a lot of potential Carmela Sopranos out there. And a lot of people who would fail this test.

Spruce beer: the choice of tree-chuggers

One of my impulse buys in Montreal was a can of spruce beer that I spotted it near the back of a shelf in the Gai Village’s Metro supermarket. It was painted with evergreen branches that bent slightly in front, like a meek dog waiting for permission to look someone in the eye, and it made me think of Christmas, which is a powerful feeling for someone traveling alone. (Religious cults ought to give it away at street corners to lure the emotionally vulnerable.) It tasted awful, of course. Imagine a floor so clean you could eat off it. Now imagine that no one has dropped any food, so you lick the floor instead and get a mouthful of Pine-Sol. I gave it about four sips before I poured the rest in the kitchen sink at my B&B — making the place smell, for an instant, like a camping tent in a Quebec forest. I expect that to satisfy my desire to experience the great outdoors this summer, unless I stumble upon some Beavermeat Saspirilla. (And I don’t mean at Mado.)

Kerfuffle at Symphony Hall

This week's brawl at a Boston Pops concert was apparently caused by an audience member who didn't like being told to shut up. In this instance, it was a guy in his 40s being shushed by a guy in his 20s, which underscores the fact that obnoxious audience members come in all ages and do not constitute a new phenomenon. Still, loudmouths tend to have different motivations at different ages. Chatterers in their 20s are mostly insecure kids trying to impress friends and potential lovers by relating trivia ("She's the daughter of that chick who got killed in Psycho!"), saying something that's supposedly witty but is obvious enough that any delay might mean that someone else will say it first (e.g., any reference to Paris Hilton), or just talking about themselves in the hopes of impressing someone. (I was at a play in which a character mentioned having lamb for dinner, and a young woman behind me who seemed to be on a first date loudly exclaimed, "I love lamb!" Well, then, go out and get some right now.) Loud audience members in their 60s or beyond are more sure of themselves, to the detriment of everyone around them. If they can't hear the dialogue, they think that no one can hear the dialogue, so it's OK to grouse, "What's he saying? What's wrong with the sound? Is that microphone broken?" Or they might decide the film or play isn't up to their standards and not worthy of respect. More than once, a senior citizen has responded to my glare by saying something like "You like this? You actually think this is good?" But loud guys in their 40s are the worst. The typical offender's attitude is that he's paid hard-earned money for his seat and he's entitled to do whatever he want while he "owns" it. (This attitude is worse if he's been dragged to a performance by a wife or girlfriend.) I was at a sold-out movie once, and the guy behind me kept yakking away to his silent partner after the movie started. When I turned around to give him a nasty look, he replied, "Yeah, just keep looking, buddy, 'cause I'm going to keep talking." (I left and got my money back.) The offender at the Pops seems to fall into this category of entitlement. If the guy he slugged presses charges, he might learn a lesson, but it's more likely that he'll just get worse. Now he's got a chip on his shoulder, and he'll be daring music-lovers all over Boston to knock it off.

"Nine o'clock guy" guy is not infallible!

After about a year of tracking my every move and judging my work habits, my "nine o'clock guy" guy slipped up this morning. (By the way, he's not the "nine o'clock guy." I am. It's like the difference between "Frankenstein" and "Frankenstein's monster.") Today, he spotted me as I came down the stairs to the Davis T stop, as usual, but for the first time in about a year, he grabbed a Boston Herald instead of a Globe and shoved it into my hand. "Err... could I have a Globe?" I asked. "Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry!" he said. "What's wrong with me? I was distracted by this guy!" (He pointed to a T "ambassador" idly standing next to him.) He was so chagrined that I felt almost calm, something that hasn't happened on a workday morning in a T station for years. Whatever evil he has in store for me will have to wait, as it will take several months for him to regain his aura of invincibility.

Fiascoware

The latest issue of ArchitectureBoston has a great essay on what happened to all that glass removed from the John Hancock Tower after the windows started to pop out and fall hundreds of feet to the sidewalk. Rudolph Bedar, who wrote the essay, was part of the group charged with sweeping the faulty glass under the rug. Some of the windows went to the Building 19 chain of discount stores ("good stuff cheap"), where people bought them as wind screens for swimming pools. Even better, a young glass blower purchased some of the shattered pieces and made drinking goblets, each with an etching on the bottom indicating that the material came from the infamous Hancock Tower. Unfortunately:

In a gush of excitement over the potential of mass-producing souvenirs out of our piles of broken glass, one of our partners had the bright idea of sending off a sample to the John Hancock CEO.... A week or so later, the package was returned with a carefully worded and wonderfully restrained letter indicating that this type of souvenir was not considered appropriate.

Too bad. I would have liked to have a set of John Hancock Goblets (for when you want to get falling-down drunk), along with some Big Dig Dinner Plates (for when you want to subtly let your guests know that your cooking is way behind schedule) and a City Hall Plaza Brick Pizza Oven to keep my pies nice and hot from May through October (or for freeze-drying them the rest of the year).

Escar-go-goat

Today I had goat for the first time. At least, I can't remember having it before, though I love the cheese that comes from the little head-butters. I was at the food court of the Corner Mall, and I wanted to avoid the chicken -- any chicken. So I went to the Jamaican place and saw a vat labeled "curried beef." When I asked for the same curried beef, the woman behind the counter got a worried expression and said, "That's not beef. It is... ahhh... goat." Now I got suspicious. Was she trying to keep me away from something so good it could only be ordered through a password? I wasn't afraid of goat. In fact, it occurred to me that goat was never mentioned in Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation, the book that explains just how disgusting beef is. (I don't know which was Schlosser's bigger achievement, writing 400 pages on the nutritional, hygenic, and political failings of ground beef, or making me just as scared of chicken with a single sentence. He didn't mean to imply that poultry was any better, Schlosser wrote, he just didn't have time to write another 400 pages on the particular evils of McNuggets.) Anyway, the goat wasn't bad -- a more tender and slightly stringier version of lamb. The curry didn't do much for me, but maybe next time I can get the yellow curry at the Thai place and replace their flavorless chicken with the goat. And I can replace the overcooked broccoli from the Thai place with the nice-and-crunchy stalks from the Cajun place (where everything else is terrible). And the onion chutney from the Indian place might taste pretty good if it's paired with something that's not from the Indian place. For about $30 a day, I could put together a tasty little lunch at the food court. Then again, a couple of whiskey sours would make the afternoon go by faster at half the price.

Le roi du smoked meat

As if a pizza box written in Franglais wasn't good enough, this one also has Chinese take-out typography ("Ouvert 24 heures"). The deli/pizzeria is a few blocks from the Jean-Talon subway stop in Montreal, and I stumbled on it this past weekend while trying to find the public market nearby (which is amazing, but more on that later). You can't see them in the photo, but the window display also features cans of Cott's Black Cherry Cola -- a drink associated with Montreal's most famous source of smoked meat, Schwartz's. It's nice to see an almost-extinct soft drink hang on because of a parasitic relationship with an even less healthy foodstuff. Maybe there's hope for Moxie.

Boston: Tripledecker of the Universe

So I'm not just imagining it. According to the last Census, 26 percent of all homes in Boston are in three- or four-unit buildings, the highest share among the 50 biggest cities in the US. (Chicago is second, with 14 percent, and Detroit is last, with 3 percent.) Unfortunately, the Census doesn't distinguish between tripledecker houses and townhouses that have been divided into three apartments, so I can only cite my own eyes as proof that there are a lot more of the former. I can say that we rank pretty low in single-family townhouses. Only 4.9 percent of the homes in the Hub fit this category, which is 31st among the 50 largest cities -- between El Paso and Memphis. In Philadelphia, 60 percent of all single-family homes are attached to other buildings (but have floor-to-roof walls separating them), and in Baltimore the figure is 52 percent. Then there's a steep drop-off to third-place Washington (26 percent). Obviously, single-family townhouses are extremely expensive in Boston, but other expensive cities (including New York, San Diego, and San Francisco) have a lot more of them than we do. I still get the sense that medium-height compact housing is a rare commodity here, and that the scarcity is one reason we have so few commercially vibrant neighborhoods. You can look up the data here.

Montreal's walkup apartments

While I was in Montreal admiring the housing stock, the city's English-language Gazette happened to run an article by Christopher DeWolf explaining how it came about. See a picture of what he's talking about here, and read the article here. Relevant section:

With their distinct form - several superposed flats, each extending from the front of a building to the back - plexes are a popular form of housing, adaptable to many different lifestyles.

But what's their story? How did Montreal come to be a city of walkup apartments, outdoor staircases and balconies? (Although plexes can be found in a number of other cities, like Boston and Chicago, only in Montreal have they become so ingrained in the local culture.)

According to David Hanna, professor of geography at the Universite du Quebec a Montreal, the origins of the plex can be traced to a 19th century "marriage of convenience" between French and Scottish traditions.

Some French-Canadian settlers used outdoor staircases to link the first and second floors of their houses; immigrants from Scotland, meanwhile, brought with them the custom of stacking one flat on top of another.

"It kept morphing in the 19th century until it settled into the form of an outdoor staircase leading to each apartment," Hanna said.

I hadn't known about the stacking; I always thought all the outdoor staircases were part of the Montreal trait of refusing to accommodate the cold climate. Not only are many apartments accessible by steep staircases that are covered by snow and ice for much of the year, but almost every housing unit has a balcony or terrace facing the street (another feature considered a luxury in Boston). And I have never seen as many houses with swimming pools as I have on the bus trip from the Vermont border to Montreal. However they came about, I still think the medium-height rowhouses in Montreal are perfect for fostering vibrant neighborhoods. They provide density without casting shadows over the street, and they maximize interactions with neighbors -- unlike Boston's triple-deckers separated by driveways. But I could be romanticizing things, and maybe a Montrealer will set me right.

The Sopranos: A fanbase equation

The Sopranos audience = the Deadwood audience plus a couple of million lunkheads like this letter-writer to Entertainment Weekly:

I'm excited to see how The Sopranos ends, but I hope Tony survives — so we can see him again, hopefully on the big screen! Bye for now to the greatest show ever made — may you go out with a bang.

(Name withheld just in case she likes real-life psychopaths too)

Back from Montreal...

...and home in Sleepytown. As I was waiting for the bus to Boston at the Gare Centrale, I watched a middle-aged man making pizzas in a restaurant that occupied a small corner of the terminal. It took him 12 minutes just to put the sauce and cheese on three pies, making sure that both ingredients were distributed evenly. This attention to detail couldn't have made a big difference in his sales; there's not much room between minimum and maximum profits when you're selling food in a bus station. But Montrealers almost never take the easy way out when it comes to food. When I got to Boston on Sunday night, most of the food sellers in South Station, as well as the main dining area, were closed. After all, it was the ungodly hour of 7:30! I did get an edible bowl of chicken, broccoli, and rice from a Chinese place (about one part chicken, three parts broccoli, and 18 parts rice), and wondered why I had come back so soon. The highlights of the trip included buckwheat crepes, sushi rolls with tempura (nice and crunchy!), red currant ice cream, french fries with bernaise sauce, cheese made from raw milk (illegal in the U.S.!), and chocolate-and-cranberry croissants. I discovered that the Metro (subway) is a lot cleaner and more efficient than the one in Boston, but that the Metro (newspaper) is littered all over the subway cars just like here. I saw that Montreal has hundreds, probably thousands, of blocks with three- or four-story rowhouses or apartments that are within walking distance of nice cafes and shops, and (unlike in Boston) you don't have to be rich to live in such neighborhoods. (And the city is blessedly free of double- and triple-deckers.) I also had my first argument with a salesperson in French. More details to come, but I couldn't blog until now because last night my Bluetooth mouse came apart in my hands as I was trying to change the batteries. Thanks, Apple!

North bound

Sorry not to blog more tonight, but I'm packing for a vacation to Montreal. Right now I'm trying to fit all of these into one sac: loonies and toonies, Arcade Fire CDs, poutine tongs, leopard-pattern bikini briefs, cigarettes and chocolate milk, nasal congestants, a Rabbit corkscrew, my "Don't Blame Me, I voted for Jean Kerry" button, a leather dictionary, a French harness, and a do-it-yourself botox kit. I see l'amour in my future!

The burrito belt

As a follow-up to an earlier post about US Census data on restaurants, here is a map showing what you'll most likely eat if you go out to dinner, depending on what state you're in. The Census Bureau counts only Chinese, Italian, and Mexican eateries separately, so the states where "Other" is first are the best bets if you want to avoid the three most cliched cuisines. (Kentucky is an exception; since there aren't that many restaurants of any kind per capita, "Other" won out there because of the extreme scarcity of dim sum and enchilada plates.) As a resident of the Northeast, this map explains a lot to me. I had heard long ago that salsa had passed catsup as America's favorite condiment but couldn't quite believe it. I hadn't realized that Mexican cooking had become so common not just in the Southwest, but also Iowa and Indiana.