The long autumn
Dec. 5th, 2011 02:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jere7myLook out your window. Does that look like December to you? If it does, you're not in New England. I'm still riding my bike; I'm not buying a December MBTA pass, because it wouldn't pay for itself. Today I biked downtown.
As much as I like my riverside route, sometimes it's good to bore straight into the heart of the city on Comm Ave., passing through the distinct bands of Brighton, Allston, BU, Kenmore, then under the Charlesgate overpass and into the rarefied atmosphere of brownstones and broad avenues. I end up in the same place, but it makes me feel more urban. Friendly exchanges with adventurous drivers stoke my adrenaline.
I was on my way to the Bazaar Bizarre, to do me some handcrafted local-artist Christmas shopping. One dollar got me in the door. I was afraid, as I passed BMWs and Audis and Mercedeses on Tremont, that I was going to find a lot of sterilized-for-rich-people art, but the music was loud (it featured the Smiths!) and there was a healthy dollop of alt-people and hippies stirred in among the middle-aged women in tailored suits. I bumped into Dirk T., who was manning the Boston Comics Roundtable table, and chatted with a few artists (including one fairly awesome comic artist who also paints badger skulls). There were felted rocks and circuit board pendants and butterfly earrings and whimsical animal-head hunting trophies made out of felt petals and fancy s'mores and all kinds of things like that there, all under the fabulous dome of the BCA Cyclorama.
I got a few prezzies for people, but was called away earlier than expected when![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adfamiliares called to tell me she'd finished carolling with the 99% at Occupy Boston and wanted to meet for dinner in Chinatown. My standard bánh mì place was closed due to construction next door, but we got equally good bánh mì at 163 Vietnamese Sandwiches, with an avocado shake (for her) and a startling hot-condensed-milk-and-egg drink for me. (Startling because hot.) Tasted good, but it might be the worst possible beverage to spill all over yourself and your bike and your coat as you're walking your wife to Downtown Crossing.
Then across the Longfellow Bridge and up Beacon to Diesel, where The Book That Is Not Called Word Up, Stratocaster! is coming into focus.
As much as I like my riverside route, sometimes it's good to bore straight into the heart of the city on Comm Ave., passing through the distinct bands of Brighton, Allston, BU, Kenmore, then under the Charlesgate overpass and into the rarefied atmosphere of brownstones and broad avenues. I end up in the same place, but it makes me feel more urban. Friendly exchanges with adventurous drivers stoke my adrenaline.
I was on my way to the Bazaar Bizarre, to do me some handcrafted local-artist Christmas shopping. One dollar got me in the door. I was afraid, as I passed BMWs and Audis and Mercedeses on Tremont, that I was going to find a lot of sterilized-for-rich-people art, but the music was loud (it featured the Smiths!) and there was a healthy dollop of alt-people and hippies stirred in among the middle-aged women in tailored suits. I bumped into Dirk T., who was manning the Boston Comics Roundtable table, and chatted with a few artists (including one fairly awesome comic artist who also paints badger skulls). There were felted rocks and circuit board pendants and butterfly earrings and whimsical animal-head hunting trophies made out of felt petals and fancy s'mores and all kinds of things like that there, all under the fabulous dome of the BCA Cyclorama.
I got a few prezzies for people, but was called away earlier than expected when
adfamiliares called to tell me she'd finished carolling with the 99% at Occupy Boston and wanted to meet for dinner in Chinatown. My standard bánh mì place was closed due to construction next door, but we got equally good bánh mì at 163 Vietnamese Sandwiches, with an avocado shake (for her) and a startling hot-condensed-milk-and-egg drink for me. (Startling because hot.) Tasted good, but it might be the worst possible beverage to spill all over yourself and your bike and your coat as you're walking your wife to Downtown Crossing.Then across the Longfellow Bridge and up Beacon to Diesel, where The Book That Is Not Called Word Up, Stratocaster! is coming into focus.
