Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: Boston

One If By Land, Two If By Seastones

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you remember laughter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“What about Vera Lynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rock and roll radio?”

“Also a yes, sir.”

“Well, then, classic rock has no more unanswered questions. We’re heroes, Jenkins.”

“We could be.”

“Have I been accused of sexual harassment yet?”

CHECKING TWITTER NOISE

“Not yet, sir.”

“Dammit, I’m tired of waiting. Get over here.”

“No, sir.”

“Watch me make love to myself.”

“No, sir.”

UNZIPPING NOISE

“Look at it!”

“I will not, sir.”

“No, there’s this growth I want you to see.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You should see a doctor, sir.”

“I did! He got mad at me for showing it to him!”

“Was it the–”

“It was the dentist, yes.”

“–dentist again? Oh, sir. I keep telling you: they’re just for teeth.”

“Then they shouldn’t be called doctor, dammit! If you want to be called doctor, then you need to be available to look at my penis. Those are the rules, Jenkins.”

“Can we discuss the poster, sir?”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. This show is in Boston.”

“Foul burg. A dinky little place, Jenkins. And stinky. Boston dinks and stinks. And they’re pompous. ‘Legal Seafood.’ Seafood’s legal everywhere. They’re not special.”

“The town does have a high estimation of itself.”

“Have you heard what they do to the English language? The only thing Bostonians hate more than the letter R is the thought of negros learning math next to their Kevins and Margarets.”

“They did not take to busing, sir.”

“Do you know a Bostonian engaged in sexy talk would be speaking erotically and a-rhotically?”

“Well done, sir.”

“Shouldn’t mix Irishmen and college students, Jenkins. Or Irishmen and Italians. Or Irishmen and anyone. I guess that’s why God put them on an island.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Let’s do something different this time, Jenkins.”

“Create something beautiful?”

“No, steal all the petty cash and head to Mexico.”

“The petty cash won’t last that long, sir.”

“It will. I have a plan. We’re going to convert it into Zimdollars first. There’s like 600 bucks in petty cash, so that means we’ll have…”

“14 quintillion Zim.”

“We’ll be kings, Jenkins. No. I’ll be a king, Jenkins. And you’ll be my Jenkins. Imagine that. Being a king’s Jenkins. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sir, you’re not quite grasping how currency exchange works.”

“And then we’ll trade in that massive amount of money for pesos and Mexico will open herself up to us. Like a slutty clam.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m going to be a gentleman farmer. Grow refried beans. In the evenings, I will stroll through the plaza with Conchita and our young son Machismo.”

“You already have a family, sir.”

“They suck.”

“Poster.”

“Poster! Let’s talk color. I’m thinking ‘If autumn could take a shit.'”

“Yes, sir. And the image?”

“Who’s that guy who got shot? Crispy Hatrack?”

“Crispus Attucks, sir.”

“He was no saint, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Him and Ted Williams doing it.”

“No, sir.”

“Doing it hard. Teddy Ballgame is calling his shots.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“Homophobe.”

“No, sir. It is not homophobic to refrain from portraying Crispus Attucks and Ted Williams having sex on a Dead & Company poster.”

“You’re worse than Hitler, Hitler.”

“Stop that.”

“Fine. No humping. How about Mayor Menino’s speech impediment?”

“How do you draw that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we hire an artist, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call down to the front desk and ask them to look in the Lost & Found.”

“For what, sir?”

“My will to live. Fuck it. Do Paul Revere, but–”

“He’s a bear.”

“–he’s a bear, and then sprinkle–”

“Dead bullshit all over it.”

“–Dead bullshit all over it.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Anything about the harassment?”

TWITTER CHECKING NOISE

“Still no, sir.”

“The waiting is killing me.”

The Bus Came By And I Threw Up

“Jenkins!”

“I’m sitting on your lap, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Why are you doing that?”

“You call it ‘Santa Practice,’ sir.”

“Ah. How am I doing?”

“You have an erection, sir.”

“Well you must have been naughty.”

“I’m going to stand up.”

“I’m not. I’ve got a boner.”

“Yes, sir. What did you want to discuss?”

“I had a dream last night, Jenkins. I dreamt that I ate an entire box of crayons and then projectile vomited onto some glossy paper. What do you think that means?”

“No idea, sir.”

“So many colors that nothing at all made sense. Have you heard of minimalism, Jenkins?”

“Of course, sir.”

“This was the opposite.”

“Maximilism.”

“Stop making up words, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there were bears and skeletons and buses and roses and flying eyeballs and you were there, Jenkins. And you two farmhands.”

“Who are you talking to, sir?”

“The farmhands.”

“Hello.”

“Howdy.”

BANG!

BANG!

“You shot the farmhands, sir.”

“Their existence was only required for that one joke, Jenkins. Let’s get back to the poster.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“Let’s see: first, I sexually harassed you, then I told you my dreams, and then I shot two farmhands. Yes, we’re talking about the poster.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“Bring me some paper, a box of crayons, and a bottle of Ipecac.”

“What if we just let an artist do it?”

“But then I wouldn’t get to vomit up rainbows.”

“Yes, sir.”

Help On The Fenway

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Boston, Jenkins.”

“Beantown, sir.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes called it the Hub. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Terrible speech impediment. Couldn’t pronounce ‘Boston.'”

“Ah.”

“I am excited, Jenkins! Let’s get in the Boston spirit.”

“How, sir?”

“Segregate the office.”

“No, sir.”

“Sell off Babe Ruth.”

“We can’t, sir.”

“Strangle someone.”

“Lots of towns have had stranglers, sir.”

“Yes, but the Tulsa Strangler didn’t get a Rolling Stones song written about him, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Bring me your neck, Jenkins.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“They say it’s the most intimate way to murder someone.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Any ideas, sir?’

“What about a toothbrush for your asshole? That’d stick it to Big Toilet Paper.”

“Let’s table that, sir.”

“You don’t get to table anything, Jenkins. I’m the chair.”

“Perhaps I didn’t couch my statement properly.”

“Floor.”

“Yes, sir. Floor. Now, the poster?”

“Bear.”

“Bear, check.”

“One of those tank-lizards.”

“Turtles, sir. They’re called turtles.”

“They wear their ribs on the outside, Jenkins! Preposterous rib placement.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Do you want ribs for lunch, sir?”

“You read my mind.”

“Anything else for the poster?”

“Bucky Dent refusing to make way for ducklings.”

“No, sir.”

“Whitey Bulger running over Tom Brady in a duck boat.”

“No, sir. No duck-related trolling at all.”

“What? We can’t make fun of Boston? Next, you’ll tell me we can’t make fun of homosexuals or the poor!”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just throw the bear and the turtle and some skulls and whatnot in there.”

“So, same as usual?”

“Precisely. Rib time?”

“Rack ’em up, sir.”

Til The Waters All Are Dried

Before I accepted the teachings of the First Church of the Iterated Christ, I was an atheist, one of those shitty ones who liked to argue and read books by clever men that congratulated me on being almost as clever as they. I read the non-believer’s liturgy, recited the dogma. Can there be anyone in the world more intolerable and dumbheaded than yourself, ten years ago?

Before that, I was an apatheist, which means I just didn’t give a shit whether there was a God or not.

Prior to that, I believed in God but not in any particular religion. My friends and I had taken too much acid in Boston, and we had gone on a quest that ended up at the Cristian Science Center. It was well past midnight, and this is what the Christian Science Center looks like well past midnight:

christian-science-center-boston

Which will blow your teenage mind.

Emma was there, whom I loved but did not love me back. She was from the Cape, and had a fucked-up nose. Rachel, with her wonky eye and dazzled smile, and Marla; we called her Manona. Brenda had tattoos and started fights with date-rapists on Beacon Street in the middle of traffic, and she painted pictures of a distractingly well-hung Jesus on the cross. Seth may have been wearing overalls and chunky black shoes: he wore that a lot.

A wave came over me at the reflecting pool, and I dropped to the knees of my mind; all I could see was children, needy and desperate attention whores, leaping up and down to get the Lord’s attention. Some were dressed in cassocks, and others in white, short-sleeved shirts. Due to a youthful misunderstanding of Christian Science, I may have also pictured some folks in lab coats.

“Look at what I built for You!”

“Do You like it?”

“What do You think? Bigger? Maybe bigger? Bigger.”

And all of a sudden I was embarrassed for the Pope, and the Elder Mormon, and whomever is in charge of Christian Science since Mary Baker Eddy died of an easily curable disease. God made Saturn, and then he liked it, so he put a ring on it; you think a reflecting pool will impress Him? God dug the Grand Canyon by accident, and you hired a guy to paint on the ceiling.

Surely, God cannot be an architect critic.

My father, whose name was Steve, stopped smoking more than a decade before he died, but in his passing he is reunited with his True Green 100’s, at least in my mind. He liked the soft pack, and he would hold the cigarette in between in his front teeth as he lit it with a match. Always a match. He would only smoke half of them, and when I turned fourteen or so I started stealing the butts from the ashtray.

I told him about my realization once, that I did not believe in God; and that all religions were false, including Judaism, which I had renounced, even though I made no offer to return any of my Bar Mitzvah money. (I’m sure I didn’t say anything clever at the time, as the presence of my father reduced my IQ by 30 points.)

Some people blow out the match when they light a cigarette, but my father shook his out with two quick flicks of his wrist.

“You’ll be on the train car standing next to the rabbi.”

To quote Mark Twain, “Honey, have you seen my white suit?” To paraphrase him, it’s amazing how much smarter my father’s gotten since he died. I don’t know what I said; I’m sure I argued with him.  Can there be anyone in the world stupider than yourself twenty years ago?

Out At The Ballpark

fenway pride.png

It’s been a sad and tiresome day, Enthusiasts, but here’s something sweet.

Also, here’s what homosexuality sounds like in Boston:

“Bro, I think yuh wicked hot.”

“Yuh wicked hot, dude.”

“We should FAAAAAHK.”

“No doubt, bro. Let’s FAAAAAAHK.”

And then they fuck.

“Hey! Say it right.”

“Say it right, RETAAAAHD.”

“What a  RETAAAAHD.”

“I’ll slap you silly, you shitty FAAAAAHK.”

Please stop this. Do you guys even have names?

“Gay Sully.”

“Gay Fitzy.”

Oh, that’s just lazy.

“Gonna kick you in NAAAAHDS.”

“Knife you in the CAAAAAAHK.”

Jesus, I can hear that vulgar bray in my skull. Wait, before you kick my ass: doesn’t the T stop running in ten minutes?

“Shit.”

“We see you, we kick your ass.”

“Next time, RETAAAAAAHD.”

“Go SAAAAAAWX.”

I’m kind of sorry I even began this, to be honest.

Thoughts On Boston Without Research

  • Founded in 1381 by two Irish brothers, Flahertus and Fitzus.
  • Many of the roads still follow the original paths laid out by people using surveying equipment that included a lead weight dangling from a string.
  • There was also some eyeballing.
  • Even today, “that seems right” is a phrase used in Boston construction, as seen in the Big Dig.
  • Boston was America’s first great city, not in small measure due to Boston Harbor, a natural docking point for ships of all sizes; this allowed Boston to become a center of commerce.
  • Among things imported through Boston Harbor were tea, stamps, and intolerableness.
  • Many of our Founding Fathers have Boston roots, such as Sam Adams, Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, Mark Wahlberg.
  • Only one of those men has had a truly classic Beastie Boys song written about him.
  • There was a very famous riot in Haymarket Square over something.
  • Freedom?
  • The proper ratio of taxation to representation?
  • (Some. The proper ratio of T/R is some, at least.)
  • The American Revolution started there, kind of.
  • The first guy killed in the revolution was killed in Boston: Crispus Attucks.
  • Black guy.
  • I know, right?
  • Sadly, there was no Colonial Fox News to dig into Crispus’ past and find the marijuana arrest from when he was 14 and call him a thug.
  • #notallredcoats
  • Terrible weather.
  • Hilariously corrupt local government.
  • You know the Whitey Bulger story, right?
  • Whitey Bulger was the HMIC in Boston Crime at the same time his brother was the President of the State Senate.
  • And he had FBI informants on his payroll.
  • And everyone knew it.
  • There was a DJ up there (last name’s Carr – NO RESEARCH, MOTHERFUCKERS) who used to talk about the whole thing every night.
  • No one really gave a shit as long as the roads got plower.
  • Those suckers got plowed to within an inch of their lives.
  • Boston knows how to do two things: think New York gives a shit about it, and plow snow.
  • No idea how to run a modern public transit system, though.
  • Ah, you think, this is because you’re supposed to drive.
  • But anyone who has ever been on Storrow Drive knows this is not the case.
  • Best way to get anywhere in Boston is to walk.
  • I’m talking about in the actual city.
  • Walking is not the best way to get from Charlestown to Jamaica Plains.
  • If you have an hour, though, and it’s nice, there’s no better way to go from the North End to Fenway Park.
  • You’d pass Faneuil Hall and the giant, tourist-infested food markets that all reeeeal Bostonians say they avoid, but they don’t because it smells like a Bond Girl dipped in cinnamon.
  • Up Beacon Hill, which is not named ironically.
  • It is old, and it is historic, and when the cobblestone sidewalks ice up, you will see all the history at the speed of light as you slide down the rather serious grade.
  • If you make it over, you’ll be at the Common.
  • People used to let their cows hang out here.
  • Maybe sheep.
  • Now, it’s mostly bums, tourists, and Emerson students.
  • On any given night in Boston Common, you will find any given number of Ubiquitous Teenage Drug Circles.
  • The State House, and the frieze of the 54th “Glory” Regiment are behind you.
  • You missed them.
  • No, we don’t have time to go back: this is on you.
  • Keep up the pace.
  • Across a road whose name is very famous and that I lived within sight of, you’ll come to the Public Gardens.
  • This is where the Swan Boats are.
  • Also actual swans, which will attack you.
  • If you survive, you will be arrested because trust me on this one: the people of Boston like those sinister waterfowl a lot more than they like you.
  • Larry Bird, weird hot dog buns, and those fucking swans: these are a few of their favorite things.
  • Pass the massive statue of George Washington (maybe) on horseback (definitely) and you’re at the beginning of the Back Bay.
  • The Back Bay didn’t used to be here: they dug out more space into the harbor and this was where they dumped the land.
  • That sounds right.
  • And, since this happened in the late 1800’s, the Back Bay has a modern grid system to the streets; not only that, but going east-to-west, it’s alphabetical.
  • Let’s see how many brain cells TotD has left from college.
  • The big avenues are, in order: sunny Beacon, middle-child Marlborough, the grand concourse of Commonwealth, Newbury Street’s fashion and style, and Boylston’s commerce and libraries.
  • The streets are Abalone, Berkeley, Cinnamon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Gloucester, Hereford, Ipswich, Jabroni, and Kellanlutz.
  • Some of those may be made up.
  • Gloucester and Hereford are right: I lived on both of those streets, so it would be just sad to forget them.
  • Okay, though: tour continues across the main street of Boston proper, Massachusetts Avenue.
  • Pronounced Massav.
  • Cut through Kenmore Square, home to the famous Citgo Sign.
  • Citgo does not own the Citgo sign anymore; the city bought it years ago and pays for the electric.
  • It’s pretty.
  • Beauty is its own defense and, no snark: the thing’s just pretty.
  • Kenmore Square used to be a terrible and filthy place, full of junkies and Mister Butches and basement diners and second-floor comic book stores.
  • There were Rathskellars and everything smelled like hepatitis and there wasn’t a supermarket for miles.
  • I fucking loved that place.
  • All my friends lived there.
  • Condos now.
  • Gap.
  • Everything changes, nothing lasts.
  • Keep walking and you’ll hit the Fenway, kind of. (Now we’re thinking with portals.)
  • On your left are the Victory Gardens, which are acres and acres of rows of garden plot given out to the community to grow stuff.
  • Unintended consequence: acres and acres of garden is a great place for gay dudes to go and anonymously grab at one another.
  • Which is a weird thing to suddenly find yourself in the middle of one night when, say, you and your friends wander in ripped to the tits on acid.
  • Trust me on this one.
  • Just a few blocks to Fenway Park, which, like a lot of old-timey stadia, is smack-dab in the middle of a neighborhood.
  • I lived on Park Drive, just a few blocks away and on a summer night with your windows open, the home run cheers would wander into your living room.
  • Red Sox fans might also throw up on your car, but you knew that when you moved in, so no complaining.
  • Not much of a college town.
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