This is my post from a Yahoo story on Obama's plan to raise money for job creation by taxing the rich (and the right wing then crying "Class Warfare!"), with reply from Phil T:
"I love the way these teabaggers twist the truth. The class warfare has been going on for quite some time now. It is a war of the rich (and banks, oil boys, wall street, big corporations) AGAINST everyone else. The rich run this country, change laws to suit themselves, make sure they pay almost nothing in taxes, and then when Obama finally has the guts to stand up and say, "Hey, maybe you guys should pay something similar in taxes to a middle class working person", they get their teabagging hacks to scream "Class warfare". What a bunch of soulless creeps, no ethics and no concern for anyone but their corporate sugar daddies. Man, if there is a hell, they are surely going to burn in it when their time comes.
1 Reply
PhilT
Yeah, it's good the rich can't buy their way out of dying!"
So far 6 thumbs up and only 2 thumbs down from the pay-for-hire teabagger hacks who troll the internet desperately searching for any signs of intelligence, aiming to quickly shoot it down.
Clearly the plan of the Rich Corporate Elite (and their teabagger hacks) is to turn the USA into an old-style third world economy. You really have to wonder what kind of nightmare childhood these creeps experienced to end up as such heartless, soulless sick psychopaths.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Psycho Roommate Questionnaire
Over the years, I have had PLENTY of experiences with roommates, good and bad. Due to some recent unpleasant experiences, as well as a few painful old ones, I am now concluding that a VERY detailed questionnaire is probably in order when interviewing potential roommates, particularly to rule out psychos, exhibitionists, thieves and other criminals and scary people. Here is part one of my first draft:
1. Do you plan to walk around in your underwear or worse, nude, within the first 24 hours of moving in?
2. Do you have a tendency to stare fixedly at boxes of tea whilst holding them in the air, for, say, 5 minutes or more, while mumbling to yourself?
3. Do you have a tendency to leave the bathroom door unlocked and then laugh demonically if your roommate walks in, unawares?
4. When you pack up to move out, do you plan to also pack half my stuff in those boxes and take it with you as well?
5. Do you plan to remove all my furniture from the living room while I am at the grocery store, store it in the storage area, and replace it with all YOUR furniture?
6. Do you plan to come to my door in the middle of the night while I am sleeping and knock softly on my door, because, after all, I am a woman and you are "a man"? And to do so on the very first night?
7. If you have a problem--say, the internet is a little slow one day-- do you plan to run down the hall screaming at me at the top of your lungs?
8. If you have a fight with your girlfriend, do you plan to come home and rub perfume on my cats, in an effort to make them ill?
9. When I object to this practice, do you plan to threaten to throw them off the balcony?
10. When I call the police about this, do you then plan to leave a large note taped to the lid of the toilet, "Let the games begin"?
OK, you may have gotten the sense that most of these psycho cases are male, and if you have, you are right. But the thief, furniture remover and screamer were all women. So it's about 75% lunatic males and 25% lunatic females. I'd say that's a pretty accurate representation of real life statistics, wouldn't you?
I plan to write more on this entertaining topic at a later date. But right now I need to sleep, since my most recent psycho roommate (#1 on the list, who paraded around in his underwear on his very first night, and YES I did tell him NEVER EVER to do that again, or he will be out on his ass) kept me awake, wondering if he planned to knock on my door stark-naked in the middle of the night. Something like that weirdo who showed up at my hammock in the Palapas at midnight in Mexico, eyes all aglow and completely naked. What did he think I would do? Jump his bones? I just asked, in a very annoyed and bored voice, "Yeah? Waddya want?" The crazy guy stood there expectantly. Couldn't I see he had what it takes? I yawned, "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Go away." He was shocked at my apparent immunity to his charms, but he left. Thank goddess. GOOD NIGHT!!!
1. Do you plan to walk around in your underwear or worse, nude, within the first 24 hours of moving in?
2. Do you have a tendency to stare fixedly at boxes of tea whilst holding them in the air, for, say, 5 minutes or more, while mumbling to yourself?
3. Do you have a tendency to leave the bathroom door unlocked and then laugh demonically if your roommate walks in, unawares?
4. When you pack up to move out, do you plan to also pack half my stuff in those boxes and take it with you as well?
5. Do you plan to remove all my furniture from the living room while I am at the grocery store, store it in the storage area, and replace it with all YOUR furniture?
6. Do you plan to come to my door in the middle of the night while I am sleeping and knock softly on my door, because, after all, I am a woman and you are "a man"? And to do so on the very first night?
7. If you have a problem--say, the internet is a little slow one day-- do you plan to run down the hall screaming at me at the top of your lungs?
8. If you have a fight with your girlfriend, do you plan to come home and rub perfume on my cats, in an effort to make them ill?
9. When I object to this practice, do you plan to threaten to throw them off the balcony?
10. When I call the police about this, do you then plan to leave a large note taped to the lid of the toilet, "Let the games begin"?
OK, you may have gotten the sense that most of these psycho cases are male, and if you have, you are right. But the thief, furniture remover and screamer were all women. So it's about 75% lunatic males and 25% lunatic females. I'd say that's a pretty accurate representation of real life statistics, wouldn't you?
I plan to write more on this entertaining topic at a later date. But right now I need to sleep, since my most recent psycho roommate (#1 on the list, who paraded around in his underwear on his very first night, and YES I did tell him NEVER EVER to do that again, or he will be out on his ass) kept me awake, wondering if he planned to knock on my door stark-naked in the middle of the night. Something like that weirdo who showed up at my hammock in the Palapas at midnight in Mexico, eyes all aglow and completely naked. What did he think I would do? Jump his bones? I just asked, in a very annoyed and bored voice, "Yeah? Waddya want?" The crazy guy stood there expectantly. Couldn't I see he had what it takes? I yawned, "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Go away." He was shocked at my apparent immunity to his charms, but he left. Thank goddess. GOOD NIGHT!!!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
My Inner Self, and Pete Cassani's Beautiful Whaling Guitar
So tonight I was in Harvard Square, waiting to square off against my newest psycho roommate, soon to be gone bye-bye, not wanting to see him at all but needing to get it over with so I can move on with my life. Finally the guy arrives. I present my case for a deduction in his refund, due to all the crap he pulled in the one short week he stayed at my house, and in the background I can hear Pete Cassani's beautiful guitar. As we begin to wind things up, the volume goes up and up over in the Pit. I assume the monitor has long gone, since it is quite close to midnight. Pete is playing lead guitar to Roger Nicholson's rhythm guitar. Roger has been singing some songs, Pete has been taking the solos. As I say good-bye to my now ex-roommate, alcoholic and unpleasantly unpredictable and young and irresponsible and quite wealthy and no doubt carrying a very sad story in his soul, Pete's guitar solo starts to REALLY soar.
I feel relieved that this most recent saga is over. I LISTENED to my inner self quite QUICKLY for a change. She was REALLY freaking out about this guy, almost the minute he arrived from Germany. My outer self, who represents insane socialization to be blindly "nice" and "understanding" without regard to my own needs and safety, and a long history of being lied to for the sake of other's needs and addictions, was confused. "But he doesn't seem THAT bad? What's the big deal?"
My inner self would have NONE of it and would not let me sleep more than 4 hours a night for the first few days of his arrival. She was virtually SCREAMING at me inside my head, "GET RID OF HIM, NOW!!!"
The most amazing thing is that I am sure she realized almost immediately that he is a totally messed up alcoholic, whereas my lied to socialized self only fully realized it tonight, after one week, when I saw him in front of me, half drunk as I discussed the problems he had caused in one short week. And I realized that he had probably been drunk almost every night, since he arrived late and fumbling and loud from a night out with friends, 5 nights out of the 7 he had been at my house.
I felt like Pete's guitar playing was giving me courage, and I just spoke up clearly and firmly. The soon to be ex-roommate agreed to the various deductions in his refund, gave me the keys and finally we were done!
As I walked to my bike, I swear, Pete's guitar was flying to the heavens. I don't know if I have ever heard him play so beautifully. It was just Pete, the volume cranked up, and this amazingly gorgeous waterfall of music cascading through most of Harvard Square, showering everyone with incandescent stardust, love and JOY!!!
Thanks for the help Pete! I had forgotten how beautifully you play. And how healing, powerful music can be. Pure magic.
I feel relieved that this most recent saga is over. I LISTENED to my inner self quite QUICKLY for a change. She was REALLY freaking out about this guy, almost the minute he arrived from Germany. My outer self, who represents insane socialization to be blindly "nice" and "understanding" without regard to my own needs and safety, and a long history of being lied to for the sake of other's needs and addictions, was confused. "But he doesn't seem THAT bad? What's the big deal?"
My inner self would have NONE of it and would not let me sleep more than 4 hours a night for the first few days of his arrival. She was virtually SCREAMING at me inside my head, "GET RID OF HIM, NOW!!!"
The most amazing thing is that I am sure she realized almost immediately that he is a totally messed up alcoholic, whereas my lied to socialized self only fully realized it tonight, after one week, when I saw him in front of me, half drunk as I discussed the problems he had caused in one short week. And I realized that he had probably been drunk almost every night, since he arrived late and fumbling and loud from a night out with friends, 5 nights out of the 7 he had been at my house.
I felt like Pete's guitar playing was giving me courage, and I just spoke up clearly and firmly. The soon to be ex-roommate agreed to the various deductions in his refund, gave me the keys and finally we were done!
As I walked to my bike, I swear, Pete's guitar was flying to the heavens. I don't know if I have ever heard him play so beautifully. It was just Pete, the volume cranked up, and this amazingly gorgeous waterfall of music cascading through most of Harvard Square, showering everyone with incandescent stardust, love and JOY!!!
Thanks for the help Pete! I had forgotten how beautifully you play. And how healing, powerful music can be. Pure magic.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Clones Return to Harvard Square
Current mood: I Hate Clones, GO AWAY!!!
Two days ago I walked from the Pit in Harvard Square to the Harvard Book Store three blocks away. Walking to the book store, I encountered the usual summer weirdos, the kind I love--drunken poets talking in rhyme, ex-military types stoned out of their minds, the street booksellers with the dog and cat fairly comfy in a rear bike tote, Asian girls looking for grungy Reggae musicians to spice up their lives, and then the usual assorted sundry of tourists, locals and students. But the weirdos were, thankfully, clearly present, and not outnumbered by the dullards.
It took maybe 15 minutes in the bookstore to find the book I wanted (a breezy summer mystery with a female protagonist, perfect for the beach). I paid for the book (only $4 from the used book section in the basement) and walked out the door. I headed back toward the Pit.
I suddenly felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. Had I been abducted by extraterrestrials? Or was I experiencing some kind of Cambridge flashback? In the space of a short 15 minutes, it seemed that the CLONES had landed, en masse. As I forced one foot in front of the other, wave after nauseating wave of CLONE people streamed past me, where only a handful had been just minutes earlier. Denizens of the Village of the Damned, all blank stares and stiff movements, inhabiting the sidewalks, cafes and streets, overwhelming all the weirdo summer energy with empty repressed rage, bringing all life to absolute zero. WTF???
The Clones are the soulless occupiers of space, lacking personality or joy or sharp edges, having been smoothed to smithereens by a forced education, adherence to the party line, bland vacations to theme parks, too many video games, too much Fox News, too many nannies, too much CONTROL, no crazy spontaneity, no LOVE.
Suddenly the Square was overrun with these nightmarish figures. A very perceptive person I know once said, "The strange thing about Harvard Square area is that you can see that the people are physically there, but they SEEM completely absent." She was right on. And it is totally creepy. Makes you want to shake someone, "Hey YOU!!! Are you home in there? Where ARE YOU??? WAKE UP!!!"
But I'm pretty sure if I ever tried that, the clone would think I was nuts, on drugs, or worse. Clones don't understand beings outside their own limited sphere, and even WITHIN their sphere, they haven't a clue. But they don't care.
These clones are cold, cruel, rude, self-centered, dull, privileged, mostly very very wealthy, the children of the corporate elite. I have actually seen these clones step over an old man passed out on the sidewalk without bothering to check if he was dead or alive. I have seen these clones chastise a homeless person "Get a job, you lazy bum!" I have seen the mother of one of these clones, herself a senior clone, laugh at the Asian man who plays his special violin in the square, laugh because he is different, seems a bit strange, someone not totally cloned, and so, a total threat to her world view.
Go AWAY clones!!! You are messing up my life and our world, and I DON'T like it!!! Go live in the jungle for awhile, or get your heart broken in a sordid affair, or live with a dozen cats and hoard lightbulb boxes, give all your money to charity and sail around the world, go to Iraq and visit a family with a child missing limbs blown off by Dick Cheney and his friends in their search for MORE oil for the company YOU invest in, ANYTHING to get your REAL self BACK into your body. It's got to be there SOMEWHERE. Maybe then you will find your heart, and get off this insane greed and power treadmill you run on every day of your sad horrible life--the deadly treadmill that is turning you into a life-sucking vampire clone.
Yes I am that optimistic. Or foolish. I have hope, against all odds, and despite many tears shed, that even insanely wealthy vampire clones can come back to life. And heal. And begin to help HEAL this earth. Yep. I believe in magic.
Two days ago I walked from the Pit in Harvard Square to the Harvard Book Store three blocks away. Walking to the book store, I encountered the usual summer weirdos, the kind I love--drunken poets talking in rhyme, ex-military types stoned out of their minds, the street booksellers with the dog and cat fairly comfy in a rear bike tote, Asian girls looking for grungy Reggae musicians to spice up their lives, and then the usual assorted sundry of tourists, locals and students. But the weirdos were, thankfully, clearly present, and not outnumbered by the dullards.
It took maybe 15 minutes in the bookstore to find the book I wanted (a breezy summer mystery with a female protagonist, perfect for the beach). I paid for the book (only $4 from the used book section in the basement) and walked out the door. I headed back toward the Pit.
I suddenly felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. Had I been abducted by extraterrestrials? Or was I experiencing some kind of Cambridge flashback? In the space of a short 15 minutes, it seemed that the CLONES had landed, en masse. As I forced one foot in front of the other, wave after nauseating wave of CLONE people streamed past me, where only a handful had been just minutes earlier. Denizens of the Village of the Damned, all blank stares and stiff movements, inhabiting the sidewalks, cafes and streets, overwhelming all the weirdo summer energy with empty repressed rage, bringing all life to absolute zero. WTF???
The Clones are the soulless occupiers of space, lacking personality or joy or sharp edges, having been smoothed to smithereens by a forced education, adherence to the party line, bland vacations to theme parks, too many video games, too much Fox News, too many nannies, too much CONTROL, no crazy spontaneity, no LOVE.
Suddenly the Square was overrun with these nightmarish figures. A very perceptive person I know once said, "The strange thing about Harvard Square area is that you can see that the people are physically there, but they SEEM completely absent." She was right on. And it is totally creepy. Makes you want to shake someone, "Hey YOU!!! Are you home in there? Where ARE YOU??? WAKE UP!!!"
But I'm pretty sure if I ever tried that, the clone would think I was nuts, on drugs, or worse. Clones don't understand beings outside their own limited sphere, and even WITHIN their sphere, they haven't a clue. But they don't care.
These clones are cold, cruel, rude, self-centered, dull, privileged, mostly very very wealthy, the children of the corporate elite. I have actually seen these clones step over an old man passed out on the sidewalk without bothering to check if he was dead or alive. I have seen these clones chastise a homeless person "Get a job, you lazy bum!" I have seen the mother of one of these clones, herself a senior clone, laugh at the Asian man who plays his special violin in the square, laugh because he is different, seems a bit strange, someone not totally cloned, and so, a total threat to her world view.
Go AWAY clones!!! You are messing up my life and our world, and I DON'T like it!!! Go live in the jungle for awhile, or get your heart broken in a sordid affair, or live with a dozen cats and hoard lightbulb boxes, give all your money to charity and sail around the world, go to Iraq and visit a family with a child missing limbs blown off by Dick Cheney and his friends in their search for MORE oil for the company YOU invest in, ANYTHING to get your REAL self BACK into your body. It's got to be there SOMEWHERE. Maybe then you will find your heart, and get off this insane greed and power treadmill you run on every day of your sad horrible life--the deadly treadmill that is turning you into a life-sucking vampire clone.
Yes I am that optimistic. Or foolish. I have hope, against all odds, and despite many tears shed, that even insanely wealthy vampire clones can come back to life. And heal. And begin to help HEAL this earth. Yep. I believe in magic.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Saturday Night Impressions, Harvard Square Again
Roger Nicholson again playing his sad songs, this time in the Pit. People sit and listen, and actually applaud. As the night wears on it gets crazy (I leave and then come back again later). A group of shirtless drunken frat boys are yelping and shouting. There is a full moon, so maybe that explains it. But actually Roger has fewer problems with this insanity than some rockers I know. I believe this may be due to the low-key plaintive nature of his music...but Roger claims its because he "has done this a lot" and knows how to handle people.
Peter the automaton guitarist has his sound turned up WAAAYY past 80 db. Where is that monitor when you need them? Roger says he plans to play in the Pit a lot more often, which no doubt means Peter will be blasting his music a lot more often too. And as I have said before, I really HATE Peter's automaton playing. Thankfully, I'm not the only one. The other day, a guy was yelling out "YOU SUCK!!! PLAY SOMETHING DIFFERENT FOR ONCE!" I went to talk to the guy and no, he wasn't drunk. He was trying to do some work on his computer and he just hates the automaton guitar stuff too.
I chat with a couple. She is second generation Pakistani from Ontario, Canada, and he is a blond, sharp-eyed MIT researcher from Australia. They seem nice together, affectionate and respectful. I think maybe a pretty good couple, for once. But...they love the Ryan Adams song about "screw all my friends behind my back, with a smile on your face" and look lovingly at one another as Roger sings it. It occurs to me, "Maybe this will be their First Dance song at the wedding?" That would be hilarious!
Several students next to me are talking loudly. "Well, she said it was the BEST SEX she ever had!" The Ontario woman, a young researcher, throws a piercing glance their way, and suddenly they are completely befuddled. I am impressed by that piercing glance. I'm going to practice it. And use it whenever appropriate.
Once again, I don't like my new roommate. What else is new. I accepted him sight unseen, in the middle of dealing with a sick cat and another roommate I absolutely hated. This guy too is German, and he speaks in such a clipped aggressive way. I KNOW all Germans don't speak this way, do they? I mean, Heidi Klum doesn't speak in such a clipped aggressive manner, although maybe she does, in German.
Because I don't like him I didn't sleep so well, which puts me in not the best mood, and I hate that. So I guess I will kick him out, sooner than I thought. Boring boring boring.
I went to Singing Beach again, and it was SO foggy that the fog was blowing in off the water like clouds across a mountain. It was SO BEAUTIFUL!!! But not too warm. So after an hour I went to check out the arts fair in Manchester. One Man, B.Art (Bart) from Gloucester makes the most AMAZING and fun sculptures. Funny creatures, all of whom seem to be dancing, which makes sense, since he was a dancer and choreographer in another chapter of his life. If I had $350 to spare I would definitely buy one. A REAL artist, pretty hard to find these days.
Good night!!! I need to win the lottery!!! Come on people!!! Send me some numbers!!! I will accept them in my sleep!
Peter the automaton guitarist has his sound turned up WAAAYY past 80 db. Where is that monitor when you need them? Roger says he plans to play in the Pit a lot more often, which no doubt means Peter will be blasting his music a lot more often too. And as I have said before, I really HATE Peter's automaton playing. Thankfully, I'm not the only one. The other day, a guy was yelling out "YOU SUCK!!! PLAY SOMETHING DIFFERENT FOR ONCE!" I went to talk to the guy and no, he wasn't drunk. He was trying to do some work on his computer and he just hates the automaton guitar stuff too.
I chat with a couple. She is second generation Pakistani from Ontario, Canada, and he is a blond, sharp-eyed MIT researcher from Australia. They seem nice together, affectionate and respectful. I think maybe a pretty good couple, for once. But...they love the Ryan Adams song about "screw all my friends behind my back, with a smile on your face" and look lovingly at one another as Roger sings it. It occurs to me, "Maybe this will be their First Dance song at the wedding?" That would be hilarious!
Several students next to me are talking loudly. "Well, she said it was the BEST SEX she ever had!" The Ontario woman, a young researcher, throws a piercing glance their way, and suddenly they are completely befuddled. I am impressed by that piercing glance. I'm going to practice it. And use it whenever appropriate.
Once again, I don't like my new roommate. What else is new. I accepted him sight unseen, in the middle of dealing with a sick cat and another roommate I absolutely hated. This guy too is German, and he speaks in such a clipped aggressive way. I KNOW all Germans don't speak this way, do they? I mean, Heidi Klum doesn't speak in such a clipped aggressive manner, although maybe she does, in German.
Because I don't like him I didn't sleep so well, which puts me in not the best mood, and I hate that. So I guess I will kick him out, sooner than I thought. Boring boring boring.
I went to Singing Beach again, and it was SO foggy that the fog was blowing in off the water like clouds across a mountain. It was SO BEAUTIFUL!!! But not too warm. So after an hour I went to check out the arts fair in Manchester. One Man, B.Art (Bart) from Gloucester makes the most AMAZING and fun sculptures. Funny creatures, all of whom seem to be dancing, which makes sense, since he was a dancer and choreographer in another chapter of his life. If I had $350 to spare I would definitely buy one. A REAL artist, pretty hard to find these days.
Good night!!! I need to win the lottery!!! Come on people!!! Send me some numbers!!! I will accept them in my sleep!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The Unhappy Rich People of Harvard Square
Today I took the commuter rail to Singing Beach, my favorite beach in Massachusetts. Even when it is hot and a little crowded, like today, I still love it. I body surf and play in the waves and most of the grown-ups look on, befuddled, but a little girl being held by her grandma laughs joyously every time I dive into the surf, so I know I am on the right track. One man my age watches me dive in over and over again, and finally, tentatively, dives into the waves along with his 10 year old daughter. When he surfaces he looks really surprised, like, "Wow, what did I just do?" and almost immediately heads to shore. Oh well. Maybe next time he'll do it again. And again and again and again. And finally have some real FUN in his life.
On the way back I had a nice long chat with a Swiss boy, I'll call him Emil. He had been biking to the beach with his Mom and older sister. He thought the sand was too hot. He said he didn't have enough toys with him. We discussed ways to make a bike-friendly beach umbrella that would dismantle to a size of about 16 inches by 6 inches, perfect for a bike rack. And I told him how a small shovel and small ruler are all you need to make a sand pyramid on the beach.
Then we talked about witches in Salem (Emil hoped that none would get on the train at Salem--I assured him all the people looked like tourists, not witches,unfortunately), UFOs (my daughter saw one once, hovering over her and a younger friend, in Quebec--maybe THAT explains everything!), snakes and how fast they can slither away and how they tend to eat things much larger than they are, and the alligator that came pretty darn close to eating a teenager in Sanibel Island, Florida until I yelled at the teen to quit bugging the poor beast. Emil told me about his two cats, and how one had run away, and then about the rat which took residence in their home and ate their potatoes. I thought this was very funny, the idea of a rat hunkering down behind the cupboard to munch on potatoes. His mother, on the other hand, was a little embarrassed. She said the rat ate the pumpkin too.
So for 40 minutes Emil and I had a most entertaining and fun time. Then we got off in Boston and said our good-byes, and I headed to Harvard Square, happy and full of sun and sand and salt and stories.
But arriving at Harvard Square...My God!!! It was even worse today than yesterday. WHY is everyone SO unhappy? Come ON people!!! If you are so bored in Harvard Square, go to the beach! Or take a trip to Vermont, Maine, NH, Canada, anywhere!!! But WHY hang around Harvard Square in a foul sour mood, grimacing and snarling at everyone you pass? Did someone designate H Square the "Nasty Mood Depot" or something?
On top of that, Peter the robotic Russian guitarist was playing. I really really hate his playing. A young know-it-all tried to educate me recently about my lack of openness and how I could really ENJOY Peter's robotic elevator music if I just opened my heart. I told him, "Nope, no way. This guy's music is totally repressed rage and sadness and it drives me nuts and I hate it with a passion." The young know-it-all suggested I TELL Peter how I feel. Hah!!! Peter feels he is at war with the world. Generally I never tell a musician I think their music sucks, and I'm definitely NOT going to make an exception with him. Too dangerous.
So I hung around, listening to my own music, earplugs in, read the paper, watched the shenanigans of Sam, high again, yelling at people about how they are all being controlled (probably true, but people tend not to listen when they think you are crazy or high), watched how the cop did not mind the thug guy parking his car in a no-parking zone, even told the thug it was OK if just for a short time, even though the thug was there for about an hour, and I was reminded of Sam talking about the Russian mafia in Harvard Square and corrupt cops.
But as hard as I tried, I just found it harder and harder to hang onto the happiness I felt from body surfing at Singing Beach and discussing witches and snakes with Emil on the train home.
I once told someone, "I don't do drugs, but honestly, I think a dose of Ecstasy for everyone in Harvard Square might be a GREAT idea!" Or maybe just get everybody off their psych meds and see if anyone feels any better? I can see why Sam resorts to screaming. Harvard Square will do that to you.
On the way back I had a nice long chat with a Swiss boy, I'll call him Emil. He had been biking to the beach with his Mom and older sister. He thought the sand was too hot. He said he didn't have enough toys with him. We discussed ways to make a bike-friendly beach umbrella that would dismantle to a size of about 16 inches by 6 inches, perfect for a bike rack. And I told him how a small shovel and small ruler are all you need to make a sand pyramid on the beach.
Then we talked about witches in Salem (Emil hoped that none would get on the train at Salem--I assured him all the people looked like tourists, not witches,unfortunately), UFOs (my daughter saw one once, hovering over her and a younger friend, in Quebec--maybe THAT explains everything!), snakes and how fast they can slither away and how they tend to eat things much larger than they are, and the alligator that came pretty darn close to eating a teenager in Sanibel Island, Florida until I yelled at the teen to quit bugging the poor beast. Emil told me about his two cats, and how one had run away, and then about the rat which took residence in their home and ate their potatoes. I thought this was very funny, the idea of a rat hunkering down behind the cupboard to munch on potatoes. His mother, on the other hand, was a little embarrassed. She said the rat ate the pumpkin too.
So for 40 minutes Emil and I had a most entertaining and fun time. Then we got off in Boston and said our good-byes, and I headed to Harvard Square, happy and full of sun and sand and salt and stories.
But arriving at Harvard Square...My God!!! It was even worse today than yesterday. WHY is everyone SO unhappy? Come ON people!!! If you are so bored in Harvard Square, go to the beach! Or take a trip to Vermont, Maine, NH, Canada, anywhere!!! But WHY hang around Harvard Square in a foul sour mood, grimacing and snarling at everyone you pass? Did someone designate H Square the "Nasty Mood Depot" or something?
On top of that, Peter the robotic Russian guitarist was playing. I really really hate his playing. A young know-it-all tried to educate me recently about my lack of openness and how I could really ENJOY Peter's robotic elevator music if I just opened my heart. I told him, "Nope, no way. This guy's music is totally repressed rage and sadness and it drives me nuts and I hate it with a passion." The young know-it-all suggested I TELL Peter how I feel. Hah!!! Peter feels he is at war with the world. Generally I never tell a musician I think their music sucks, and I'm definitely NOT going to make an exception with him. Too dangerous.
So I hung around, listening to my own music, earplugs in, read the paper, watched the shenanigans of Sam, high again, yelling at people about how they are all being controlled (probably true, but people tend not to listen when they think you are crazy or high), watched how the cop did not mind the thug guy parking his car in a no-parking zone, even told the thug it was OK if just for a short time, even though the thug was there for about an hour, and I was reminded of Sam talking about the Russian mafia in Harvard Square and corrupt cops.
But as hard as I tried, I just found it harder and harder to hang onto the happiness I felt from body surfing at Singing Beach and discussing witches and snakes with Emil on the train home.
I once told someone, "I don't do drugs, but honestly, I think a dose of Ecstasy for everyone in Harvard Square might be a GREAT idea!" Or maybe just get everybody off their psych meds and see if anyone feels any better? I can see why Sam resorts to screaming. Harvard Square will do that to you.
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