a couple of the sounds that I really like are the sounds of a switchblade and a motorbike

I had a bad experience with crepes in middle school. A kid in my sixth-period French class attempted to make crepes for a class project. Being thirteen, however, the best he could manage were pancakes stuffed with Cool Whip. Imagine sinking your teeth into a cold, undercooked pancake wrapped around a glob of Cool Whip on an empty stomach and you’ll see the source of my hesitancy. Fortunately, Skim redeemed the crepe in my eyes by introducing me to Mr. Crepe in Davis Square on Friday. I had a tasty ham and cheese crepe.¹

We saw two people I knew and lots of people I didn’t at the b0st0n meetup at Good Times. Skim’s friends from central MA showed up later and we tore the arcade apart. Each of us ran the table on at least one game - whether SkeeBall, Tetris or Laser Tag. Between our 300 or so tickets we cleared the place out of oversized bouncy balls. If you wanted a comically undersized Budweiser golf bag, well, don’t go looking; Good Times has beat on, a boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.²

I did some grocery shopping on Saturday, paid some bills, then went to Gina’s birthday dinner at the Uno’s in Porter Square. I squeezed into a seat at the far end and talked classic films with Fraley, Melissa, Bobby and DJ. I also surprised myself by ordering a salad instead of fries with my burger. And I haven’t died yet! Apparently vegetables won’t kill me, provided you drizzle them with house dressing first.

With plenty of time to kill until my next engagement, I took the T to Park Street and had a leisurely walk through the Public Garden and the Mall on Commonwealth. The sun had just set and a blue blanket of fog kept everything intimate. I enjoyed this quiet hour alone with my thoughts before getting to Jake Ivory’s and seeing those thoughts obliterated.

Backstory: when Michelle B. picked Jake Ivory’s for her birthday, I made a lot of hemming nonsense about how I might not attend. My last trip to Jake Ivory’s sucked pus, but for Michu I readily made an exception. And I had a blast. What made the difference?

• Last time I paid an $8 cover and bought a $5 Budweiser for a place that was still under renovation. This time I paid an $8 cover and bought a $5 Budweiser in a fully functioning nightclub.
  
• Last time, two fat, balding losers in Hawaiian shirts played the piano, sneering at anyone who requested a song they didn’t know. This time, two young hep guys - one of them BC’s own Jarret Izzo³ - lit up the crowd with verve and charisma.
  
• Most importantly, I have come to terms with Jake Ivory’s as a concept. No one goes to Jake Ivory’s to pick up single ladies or to watch a baseball game. You go to Jake Ivory’s with a bachelorette party or a birthday party, and no other function. So the crowd will be full of screaming women between the ages of 28 and 36. Accept it. Don’t pretend you’re Too Cool.

I danced, I shouted, I made introductions, I took the T home.

Walking home through Davis, I saw a drunken asshole get bounced from the Burren. First I saw the bouncer drag the guy from the back door - one hand under his arm, the other hand jamming a knuckle into the hollow of his jaw. Then the guy shoved the bouncer, resulting in a hammerlock escort to the bus bench outside the bar. After a minute of posturing, the guy came back and swung a fat overhand left at the bouncer, which led to the guy eating Elm Street while the bouncer twisted both arms behind his back. “Get this guy off me!” the drunk asshole screamed, to no purpose but my deep amusement. When the cops showed up the drunk wanted to press charges (”he grabbed me by the throat!”), but the cop issued some very stern instructions and sent him walking⁴. I waited across the street, hoping that after a cigarette and a conference with some friends he’d go back for more, but the cop must have scared him sober.

I promise you: no matter how alone you find yourself on the foggy walk home, you’ll find company in a crowd full of strangers laughing at a drunk guy getting his ass kicked in Somerville. On such truths we founded this great nation.⁵

¹ This post now holds the record on this weblog for most uses of the word “crepe.” The prior record, zero, was shared by every other post.

² Soon it will become an IKEA.

³ Michelle: He needs to shave that goatee. Unless he’s going for the “porn star” look or something.
Me: Well, technically he is a lounge singer.
Michelle: Touche.

⁴ And even if the drunk had been in the right, what did he imagine would happen? Who do the cops always side with in these situations - the slurring guy with a bruise on his face, or the bouncer with whom they have this same conversation every Saturday?

⁵ Well, this one plus Ireland.

I need a miracle, I need a miracle

Sleep evaded me this weekend.

I made a long delayed return to 90s Night (warning: MySpace) at Common Ground on Friday. New friends and old showed up - Skim, Rick, MPerrotti, Jen, Cheshirepk8, Paperface, Ryan, Kate, and of course our vigilant DJ (yes, I know I’m forgetting some people - comment if I missed your name / LJ). We kept the slam-dancing drunk Allstonians in a tight knot until a bouncer could come scoop their beer bottles off the floor. I worried that he’d consider us part of their crowd, but Rick made a Bouncer-Dismissing Gesture and we got out okay. I would like to learn that gesture.

Afterward we tromped across the street to Redneck’s, who follow a business model that really should get more play:

1. Sell fried food; and
   
2. Stay open 30-45 minutes after the bars close.

I didn’t have a stomach for cheese fries at the moment, so I sat there while Jen explained the origin of her LJ handle. “What superpowers do you have?” I kept asking.

When Redneck’s kicked us out, the posse degenerated into one of those leaderless mobs where everyone shouts and laughs for ten minutes but nobody actually goes anywhere. The party kept threatening to go to Brookline and continue drinking, but I waved off and returned to Davis Square (which, Skim’s villainous slander notwithstanding, is still the coolest place to be).

I did some grocery shopping early on Saturday. What I thought would be a literal milk run turned into a three-bag trip, including a stop off at a bake sale for Obama on the walk home. I bought a brownie (more out of my love for baked goods than any particular political affiliation) and ate lunch while watching Netflix.

Kristen and her roommate Jeff invited me to their Midsummer’s BBQ just up the road. No one had adhered to the implied theme of dressing up like a faerie, which I considered fortunate. I surprised myself by being sociable at a party largely full of strangers: talking Keynesian economics with Jodi, comparing Maryland stories with Becca’s friend Anna, chatting up Mike and his girl Karen, etc. Two beers that I set down ended up tumbling over, which I blame on the slope of the backyard and not at all on the three that I drank on an empty stomach.

Colby threw another legendary luau later that evening, which I arrived at early enough to get some chicken and birthday cake. Megan and her coworker Renee floated over from the earlier Midsummer’s BBQ, proving that everyone knows someone who can get them into this party. I saw most of the Nebulas‘ set, watched Dea and her friend do firespinning once the sun went down, then hit the dance floor indoors for about 2 hours without break. If you haven’t been to one of these, keep in touch with me around June next year and I’ll bring you along.

Greg had folks over for board games on Sunday. Amy throttled me in a quick round of Battlelore, then I played some folks in EVO before the pizza arrived. I struggled my way through two rounds of Mario Kart Wii - the steering wheel responds better than you think! - and wrapped the afternoon with Pick Picnic and Pandemic (of which more later - it’s really fun).

Hawver had the brilliant idea of getting the old crew back together for burgers and cheap beer at Our House West in Allston, across the street from the Brain Trust. I drove directly there, watched Hawver slaughter his way through a round of Big Buck Hunter, then flagged the waitress down. “When do you start serving dollar burgers?” I asked.

“We … don’t?”

“Oh.” Not only does Our House West no longer serve $1 cheeseburgers on Sunday, I’ll bet no one currently working there remembers that was ever an option. You can’t go home again.

Hawver, Fraley, Melissa and I reminisced on a grand scale, talking about the days when we all first met each other. “We never really talked,” Mel said to Hawver, “because you always fled whenever I came over for gaming.”

“I really could not stand your dice rolling,” Hawver confessed vehemently.

After making fun of Fraley’s musical taste for a while (”Fraley, this is the Clash”), we went our separate ways. I ended back in Davis, where I dropped in on Katie H.’s place to watch the last half of Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone. Never been a huge fan of the series, so the addition of Rifftrax made for a welcome distraction. I laughed myself silly.

I did not end up in bed before 1:00 AM on any night this weekend. This may be a recovery week for me.

make sure he a thug and intelligent too

Some life lessons, smuggled in the form of weekend anecdotes:

Learn Enough Dance to Dance to Funk / Soul; Everything Else is Wasted. Well, okay, and the bare minimum of dance required to get married in the States. But so few places bust out any sort of swing worth swingin’ to, and salsa can only be found in seedy gin joints with knife artists in sharkskin suits. But if you’re ever in Central Square on a Friday night - like I was for Rachel R’s birthday - stop by the Cantab and listen to Diane Blue and the Fatback Band lay down the oldest and greatest. “Dancing in September,” “Knock on Wood,” and maybe even a little James Brown for you. Really - all you need.

Pick a Party and Stick With It. I left Rachel’s celebration midway through to see if anyone had camped out at 90’s Night in Allston. Had I called ahead I could have saved myself the trip - the cool kids had been crowded out by the BU kids. After waiting in line for a minute and confirming the situation with Matthew, I returned to Cambridge and closed out the night at the Cantab. I probably missed a lot of prime dancing thanks to my indecision and I will regret it until the day I die.

You Build a Surprise Party with 90% Discipline and 10% Innovation. I went to a surprise party with Kym from work on Saturday evening. Kym’s friend Allie had been planning this for about a month and had gone above and beyond to keep everything quiet. But it takes more than just secrecy to get a surprise party going. So, that afternoon, she recruited Kym’s landlord, who called Kym and told her that a burst pipe had flooded her closet. She hurried home and found us waiting.

Never Drink On An Empty Stomach. Seriously! Never! What did you think would happen? And no, two plates of tortilla chips and a bowl of creamy dip do not count! And no, a single slice of a pulled pork quesadilla does not count! How old are you? Have you learned nothing? Seriously! It’s like I can’t even look at you!

(But I had an excellent time at Bukowski regardless, helping Kate G. tick off the last few items on her beer card. If you go into the Inman Square dive and find the Charlotte Perkins Gilman mug off its hook, you’ll know she’s in town)

If You Have Time Alone, Enjoy It. I caught up with Jodi at the Grafton St Pub in Harvard on a cool Sunday afternoon, giving her the chance to vent about dealing with undergrads (apparently, the dumb kids at Harvard are just as dumb as the dumb kids anywhere). After seeing her off, I took the T to Kendall and walked to Kendall Cinema to get tickets for Redbelt. With two and a half hours to kill, I had an early dinner at the Cambridge Brewing Company right around the corner.

The afternoon had hit that “magic hour” that photographers love, when the sun lights everything soft. The red brick of the CBC kept the inside warmer than the outside (low 60s), but the ceiling fans provided a gentle downdraft. Not quite dinner time yet, so I had a quiet corner of the bar to sit and read some Fritz Leiber while a perky bartender brought me a pulled pork sandwich and the house pale. Afterwards I walked two blocks and bought ice cream at a 7-11.

Don’t look too hard for those moments; that never helps. Just stay ready when they arrive.

every little piece of your life will mean something to someone

# Waiting in line for a scrip at the Target Pharmacy, I glanced down the aisle and saw a sign for Insolence Aids. Useful little niche, I thought. Use Dr. Fulghum’s Patented Mollifying Tonic for Ages 3 to 13. Same great formula for over one hundred years. Guaranteed to cut back-sass, pouting and tantrums by fifty percent. Then I realized I’d conflated the words Incontinence Aids and Insoles in a hasty skimming, a mistake I can’t be the first to have made.

# I went to a co-worker’s party in Brighton on Friday night. Folks I never saw played Beirut (which I always clarify as “beer pong,” because I don’t know that everyone uses that name) in the kitchen, while I sat in on several heated discussions to the rules of Asshole in the living room. We watched the Celtics lose Game 6 (”you’ve got to go for the percentage shots,” I kept yelling at the TV). I danced to an amateur DJ’s relatively small 90s crate and smoked a clove cigarette outside. Good times.

# I have a variety of exciting new bruises on my forearms from jiu-jitsu on Saturday. One’s about the size of a White Castle slider; the second, maybe a silver dollar. Another student got nicked in the temple with the point of a wooden knife. It bled worse than it turned out to be but, if the divot below my right index knuckle indicates anything, he’ll have an exciting new scar in about a week. Look out, ladies!

# I attended a Kentucky Derby party on Saturday! I don’t know if I made myself a mint julep, but I combined bourbon, ice, seltzer, syrup and mint leaves in a combination I found tasty. Gentlemen lounged around in suits and ascots; ladies preened and cooed under floppy sun hats. I missed the entirety of the actual race due to the smallness of the living room, but had an excellent time regardless. I hope to see everyone involved again some time soon.

# Allow me to confess some petty larcenies. FIRST: while driving through a McDonald’s on Saturday morning, I arrived at the first pay window with a dollar held out expectantly. The lady inside didn’t even glance my way in the thirty seconds I idled, fussing with an umbrella. Presuming I’d picked the wrong window - sometimes the drive-through uses one window, sometimes two - I motored up to the next one, where a young man thrust a cheeseburger on me. So I got a McDonald’s double cheeseburger without paying. SECOND: I trust the laundromat on my corner enough to leave stuff in the washer or dryer without sitting in front of it. You can always see a staff member hovering inside while the ‘mat has its doors open. On my third and final trip to the ‘mat on Sunday, the shy Asian lady behind the counter shuffled up and pressed a crumpled dollar bill on me, nodding and smiling. I looked at her in confusion until another customer translated: “you left it in the machine.” “Thank you,” I said, unsure how to explain to someone who apparently spoke no English that I hadn’t laundered anything that day other than bedding. So I’m up $2 on the weekend.

# I somehow took the exact same Red Line train car to and from Park Street on Sunday night, four hours apart. How do I know? The train compartment smelled vaguely of shit; it got so I didn’t mind it. That’s the worst thing that I can confess.

# “Does the bet still pay off if they shoot the horse?”
“Yes, it does.”
“The system works!”

# Finally, congratulations to ImprovBoston for holding a fantastic date auction at Venu on Sunday night. IB raised, if Sasha’s math can be trusted, just over $6000 from the auctions and raffles alone. Special congratulations to Serpico and Christine, friends and regulars both, for their fund-raising efforts. The whole night really felt like a grown-up prom, with classy folks parading on stage for the crowd’s approval and a late night dance party in formal wear. I had to practically tear myself away at 11:30 but could have stayed later.