NYC State of Mind

I’ve an interesting relationship with New York City. I absolutely loathe each and every sports team emanating from that locale, as any loyal son of northern New England should. The Big Apple has, however, issued a robust siren call to me from my earliest days. I was convinced upon graduating from college that I was headed there. A twenty-seven year delay ensued while I wore a uniform and trotted around the world’s garden spots. My daughter finally realized my dream for me which allowed me to vicariously experience everything I thought I wanted when I graduated from college.

It turned out the old adage of a “great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there” was more accurate than I anticipated. I learned that I probably would not have been happy living in New York City and I did find a home in the Army with very few regrets concerning that development. All in all though I’m a bone deep New Englander and relish the opportunity to spend my sunset years back amongst the rude drivers and beautiful scenery of these northern climes. Excepting, of course, a couple months early in the year when I had a very long/hilly driveway to contend with; but I have a Panamanian solution to those months underway.

I’m focusing on Gotham today because date night was the movie The Intern and I just finished my latest Matthew Scudder novel by Lawrence Block in which, as always, New York City plays a major supporting role. First the movie, which I really liked, precisely because it didn’t go for the big reveal or major plot twist. It stars Robert Deniro as a retired successful businessman who signs on as an intern for an internet based company run by a driven young women played by Anne Hathaway. New York City also stars as the location for the collision between baby boomer and millennial cultures. Of course, I log in on the Deniro side of the ledger, agewise, as this was reminiscent of the earlier times when crowds of friends of either my son or daughter descended on the house.  

Deniro and Hathaway are so good in this, both likable and chewing serious scenery. The middle of the film struggles a little, gets a bit episodic but I liked the message of both generations contributing to growth on many levels. I may be a bit prejudiced about Hathaway as she looks so much like my daughter but this was an easy movie to like; a nice departure from my usual CGI explosions and blood splattering. The jokes were funny, the plot sincere, and it felt like hanging out with friends.

Now to my latest fanatical plunge into the world of Matthew Scudder with A Dance at the Slaughterhouse. Block continues what I thought was impossible – making each book better. He brings in supporting characters to give Scudder’s life a little more stability and dare I say “hope”. It’s an interesting collection including a call girl romantic interest, a career criminal best friend, and a street wise black kid. All contribute as Scudder sifts the minute granules of available facts trying to determine if a TV exec murdered his wife.

Block also provides a trip back in time to the culture and the city as it was when he penned this. The AIDS epidemic was at its most startlingly terrifying and Times Square was still a cesspool of porn before being reborn as the current tourist Mecca. A simple gesture Scudder observes re-kindles a forgotten search for a pair of killers whom his innate sense of justice requires pursuit. I can’t say much more without ruining the superb climatic confrontation as he pursues both cases with his signature dogged determination.

Here are some of Block’s words, with Scudder conversing with a friend about why he pursues the killers. Block does so well with dialogue, maybe the best ever:

“But here’s the point. They were doing this and getting away with it, and I got on their case and got lucky and figured out what they did and how they did it and who they did it to, and it didn’t mean squat. No indictment, no arrest, no charges brought, not even an investigation. A pretty good cop found the whole thing so frustrating he drank himself stupid. I wasn’t prepared to do that to myself.” “Well you got that part right,” he said. “And then you decided, well, letting the Universe work this out on its own is just not something I can safely do. God’s in deep shit, you told yourself, unless He’s got me to help Him out.” “God”, I said. “Well whatever the hell you want to call it. Your Higher Power, the creative force of the Universe, The Great Perhaps. That’s what Rabelais called it. The Great Perhaps. You didn’t figure the Great Perhaps was equal to the task confronting Him, so it was up to you to take over.” “No,” I said. “That’s not how it was. I thought, I can let go of this, I can turn this over, and it will all work out the way it’s supposed to. Because everything always does. I know that on the days when I seem to believe in the Great Perhaps, and I still know it when my Higher Power is the Great Perhaps Not. And one thing I always know for sure-whether or not there’s a God, I’m not it.”

Wired

I’ve faced an onerous challenge since moving into Worcester, literally the only downside I’ve experienced so far; the trial of wires. Any regular reader of the blog knows of my addiction to movies and attendant growth of my home entertainment system over the years. When we moved to Worcester that meant re-connecting everything to the TV: cable, sound system, Blu-ray player, internet, and headphones. The cable company hooked up the cable box but only that.

If I wanted to watch a Blu-ray movie (and that happens with alarming regularity) I had to turn the sound system off and turn up the TV internal speakers. As with most flat screens that left something to be desired. The biggest issue however was the lack of headphones. They are a needed salve for the times my wife is on the telephone (which happens even more regularly than my movie obsession). A secret to Latina communication I’ve learned over the years and written about before – the loudest one gets to talk first in any conversation. This competition has yielded a true champion in my wife who despite her diminutive size can blanket a house with decibels once she gets rolling on the phone. This prepared her well for the aging of her parents and the associated reduction in their hearing capability. She could blanket even our much larger house before the move and the smaller house is no match for her skills on the amplitude range.

The lack of headphones since the move means I’ve had to turn the noise up on the TV until the walls are shaking if I’m going to overcome my wife’s conversational auditory prowess. My son gave the dizzying array of wiring behind the set a game try during the move but I had exhausted him moving all our household goods. If he couldn’t figure it out then a self-proclaimed fossil with Luddite leanings (that would be me) certainly wasn’t going to. I finally bit the bullet and called in the Geek Squad. They showed up yesterday in two huge trucks which was kind of embarrassing; almost as embarrassing as explaining my incompetence in the wiring department. I think they get a lot of that because the youngsters smiled knowingly and got to work. At least one benefit to middle age is a glorious lack of sophistication when it comes to modern home electronics. It’s almost not a failing to be clueless (it’s always good to have a young person around to overcome this but they’re in short supply lately). 

I felt better after it took them nearly forty five minutes to get everything hooked up. Apparently the headphones are some ancient form of connection that needs to be wheedled into the more up to date stuff. I could care less as I can now boom movies through the sound system and when my wife reached for the phone last night I donned the headphones in Pavlovian response. I’m sure the neighbors appreciate the respite from the audio duels. Unlike them, I couldn’t hear a word my wife was bellowing on the phone and the sound system was on mute.

Reports are coming in on the Cali-Daughter’s birthday in California. In a move that surprises nobody who knows him the Wingman rose to the occasion in gallant fashion. He even procured an ice cream cake, one of my daughter’s true obsessions. They topped the day off with a long birthing class, so that must have been fun. I did note the serious lack of a sword to cut the cake. I’m going to have to arrange the deployment of one of my spare swords out there to address that failure. Any birthday cake worth cutting deserves an honorable death by long blade. 

First Daughter Day

Photogenic From the First

My wife took me to task yesterday because our jointly operated fantasy football contest was winning handily. She said we shouldn’t be so ruthless, especially since our opponent was the Cali-Daughter who is a  birthday girl today! We had a nice long conversation with said progneny bemoaning her fate that she came up against us when Andrew Luck finally decided to escape negative territory. She spent the weekend going to baby showers, including one for herself.

The Current View (dark Blue Dress near Center) Yesterday at one of the Showers

First Birthday Party

It’s times like this that I feel the distance between us (at least geographically) more profoundly than usual. Birthdays are a big deal for me, especially when it’s one of the kids. As age descends on me in no mean amount some memories fade but I can clearly remember her actual birth day. Her mother spent over twenty hours in labor before the decision to go with a C-section. A day spent in increasing anxiety and tension ended most abruptly as I was sitting in a waiting room outside the OR with my mother in law. Out came my first born in a plastic cradle enroute to wherever they send newborns for processing. The nurse stopped by to introduce us and I experienced a feeling of such overwhelming power. I realized later it was the seismic shift every parent experiences.

That Would Do It

Taking Her First Steps to a Much Skinnier Version of me at Ft Benning

Who knew as I looked down on that sweet little girl (whom her grandmother thought had very large feet) that I was meeting the future author of so many of the signature moments of my life. Watching her grow into the headstrong, beautiful, accomplished, and thoughtful woman has been one of the defining measures of my life. She and her brother are a never ending source of pride and outright consternation that I had anything to do with creating such awesome people.

She Always throws Everything She Has Into Her Efforts

One of the items uncovered with our Saturday adventures in the basement was the baptismal gown my daughter used all those years ago. It had yellowed a little with age but my wife spent yesterday restoring it to its pristine white. No idea if it will ever be used again, that’s for the next generation of parents to decide but at least it will be ready.

When my wife wasn’t berating me for destroying our first born in fantasy football she sat with me to watch the Patriots dismantle their latest opponent as Brady continues his remorseless revenge tour. My sister would be upset if I didn’t mention at this point that she and my brother in law’s team remain the only unbeaten team left, having vanquished the heretofore juggernaut that is the Cantankerous One.

Along with seemingly the rest of the world we were out in the front yard last night with the next door Mafiosos for the Red Super-Moon (or whatever the proper nomenclature is). This generational event won’t be seen again for a long time and for that reason alone it was cool to watch the moon slowly succumb to shadow. It made me think what primitive societies thought thousands of years ago when they saw something like this happen. I wouldn’t want to be the guy walking by the odd sacrificial temple when it did. 

We stayed up until mid-night so we could sing Happy Birthday to the Cali-Daughter at midnight. We figured it counted since it was September 28^th on our side of the continent. If you’re reading this today – Once Again – Happiest of Birthdays fellow reader of too many books – we love you!!!! (beyond words)

Hope Your're Smiling Again Today

Labor Camp

I am so ready to go back adventuring on my weekends as I fell afoul of the drill sergeant that dwells in the soul of all Army wives. A wife who spent time living with a Soldier, especially one that did it as long as mine did, is well acquainted with what can be accomplished. She witnessed innumerable commanding officers and more so NCOs get the utmost out of her Soldier. This doesn’t end when said Soldier takes the uniform off for the final time.

The Basement Project Site Before we Started

The wife unfortunately has been allowed to see what is possible and no amount of deflecting and excuse making can deter her from seeing that the husband can continue to meet the standard. Sloth was nowhere in evidence yesterday as we embarked on the basement re-organization. A good 1/3 of our household goods are down there following our move this past June. Since she was otherwise occupied during the move she didn’t personally supervise the stacking of all the furniture and other boxes of God knows what. She has reminded me of this perpetually since the move when she had to find a certain item and fell victim to my creative but admittedly self-serving technique of placing items where they fit best instead of logically.

My intricate stacking job also failed with the Wonder Pooch and his storm terrors. The basement is his normal place of residence, I usually leave him out of the cage at night and unfortunately a couple of the nocturnal thunderstorms blew through. Buddy reacted by scaling the stack of stored furniture and burrowing into the far side. This did wonders for the plastic we used to encase the living room furniture. My wife gave me the “he’s so your dog” look when she saw what had happened.

And After - With Buddy Barriers in Place

Before we got started we had to make what should have been a short trip to a local store since they sold us a kitchen bench but did not include the assembly instructions. Since I’m not brave or talented enough to try putting it together without I called and they got a set for me. When I told my wife where I was going I saw the evil gleam smolder in her eyes – “Shopping!” I tried to disabuse her of this notion but failed miserably. We arrived and five minutes later I had the instructions and was prepared to leave. After a full quadrant search (she’s perfected the ability to hide from me when she’s not prepared to leave a store) I located her and she met my demand to leave with full wifely equanimity. Forty-five minutes later we were heading back home to a fate foreknowledge should have warned me to allow her to shop as long as she wanted to (but of course no one has yet figured out that time limit).

We spent a full six hours in the basement much to Buddy’s concern as he saw his familiar environs pillaged and turned completely around. My wife found her “Zumba shoes” which launched the whole effort in the first place. I had placed them as far as humanly possible from easy access – this led to another lecture. We found the plastic wrap and repaired the canine inflicted damage to the furniture and then erected a barrier to prevent further incursions, although my money’s on Buddy if he is in the midst of one of his more energetic panics.

Wiingman and The Cali-Daughter Yesterday - The First
Blog Reader is Well Beyond Bump Status Now!

As always we found lots of pictures and children’s toys from bygone days which caused the appropriate pauses to go “aww”. This confirmed the well reported fact that we are so ready to be grandparents. My daughter’s California clan threw her another baby shower yesterday and we’re waiting for a report on that.  So California! Meanwhile the other future (to hear them – distant future) source of grandchildren were running up and down the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The ABFA continues to try and get my favorite son in something approaching her capabilities so she and he climbed Mount Washington yesterday. I had to content myself with the furniture mountain in the basement. I think I worked harder than they did.

Energetic ABFA and Favorite Son Yesterday in the Mountains

Low Key – Finally

Most of my usual co-conspirators were out of work yesterday so First Friday was in danger. I rescued the day by finally convincing my wife to join me. Yet another benefit of the move to Worcester is the five minutes it takes me to retrieve her after leaving work. We were joined by one other gal from work who is making a comeback from a serious health crisis earlier in the year. She and my wife spent most of the time talking which left me at loose ends to observe the comings and goings of the Worcester denizens along Shrewsbury Street which can be very entertaining.

My First Friday Dates Last Night

My wife did take notice of the very special care the ladies of Brew City accorded yours truly which did not pass without wifely comment. I told her that the service was rendered due to, in the immortal words of my excellent boss, “It’s called a tip!” She seemed to dismiss my comments that these ladies, all younger than my daughter, think of me as the elderly uncle type (sad but true). I sneaky kind of liked that she was still concerned but she took the opportunity to remind me of her prowess with a machete.

After First Friday we stayed at Brew City for dinner. My wife wasn’t sure of the decision but the food turned out to be excellent. I received another round of grilling when I mistakenly allowed her to see what I tipped on the bill. If nothing this should make it easier to convince her to attend future First Fridays. We ended the night with the next door Mafiosos who invited us over for some adult beverages and shared stories. Their granddaughters showed up for a very entertaining attack on a cake their grandmother prepared for them. It was a fantastic way to wind up a low key day to usher in a weekend to finally spend at home. I love our adventures but sometimes a deep breath is needed and we’re heading into a period where that will be hard to come by.

Baby Classes & Translating Patience

While patronizing the various cinema establishments this week I missed out on a couple calls from the Cali-Daughter and Wingman. That serious failure on my part was rectified last night by a long and thoroughly enjoyable call. She had her latest pre-natal doctor visit this week and the First Blog Reader continues to develop apace with all signs positive for both mother and child. Wingman on the other hand spent three hours with the mother of his child earlier this week in child caring instruction. My daughter is a supremely competent planner.

Wingman in Diaper Class

I must have been a complete loser while preparing for my first child (the Cali-Daughter herself) because I didn’t receive any of this training. I can imagine going to my company commander and telling him I had to take a class in diaper etiquette. Both of my kids are so far ahead of where I was at their age and I can say that without the slightest tinge of envy. I do have the benefit that can only be supplied through experience. I offered sage advice such as being careful if it’s a male child when you first open the diaper. My eye was sore for a week after learning that lesson the hard way from my favorite son.

This most welcome call did offer both my wife and I a break from what was a very frustrating situation. I was volunteered to translate a booklet at work from English to Spanish. The gringos I work with think I’m completely fluent in Spanish and that’s what my wife and I speak at home. There is, however, a huge difference between speaking a foreign language and writing it with proper grammar. Therein lies the rub leading to last night’s frustration. I brought home the first six pages I translated yesterday so she could review and edit for grammar.

I’m an impatient person by nature. I want to finish something as quickly as possible and move on to whatever is next. The search for the perfect solution is sacrificed to the faster, but acceptable imperfect one. This collides directly with my wife’s more careful and measured approach to work. We sat next to each for several hours last night working on the translation.

She claims her grammar is not what is should be and lays the blame directly on me for being less than Cervantes when it comes to hablaing her native tongue. My loose association with proper Spanish grammar has allegedly infected her ability to discern the right answer, at least quickly and then there’s the whole accent thing over certain letters.

Since she knew people from work would see this, including native Spanish speakers, and would assume I would be drafting her into helping – we were searching for the perfect solution. Cue the tension as my patent lack of patience bloomed despite my best efforts to suppress. It’s tough to be aggravated with someone who’s doing you a favor. Unfortunately we’ve hung around each for so long she knew I was getting angry despite my best efforts to mask it. We wouldn’t have survived more than three decades of marriage if she wasn’t able to overlook my personal failures and we finished the review intact. I think the phone call from the left coast really helped.

We are strangely unencumbered this weekend; our first free weekend in a long time. Since nature hates a vacuum my wife has decreed we’re going to spend part of Saturday completely re-organizing the basement where my efforts at storing items after the move has come under severe criticism. I don’t have a dog in this fight now because I’m completely in her debt and there are still more pages to translate.

Massing and a Boneyard

A friend posted this saying on Facebook yesterday and it was so appropriate to yesterday post here that I had to include it. It just rang true on so many levels and not just for my interactions with my favorite Panamanian. I’m blessed with a number of very strong women in my life, both at work, in my family, and as friends. I have lived this saying with each and every one of these women at some point. It’s kind of what makes hanging around them fun.

A second date night this week although the shared movie experience didn’t last past the popcorn feeding frenzy. My wife walked out of Black Mass right after the first savage beating was administered and went to see something more soothing. I think it was all the time she spent watching the Pope yesterday. I stayed, of course, and thoroughly enjoyed movie which finally gets Depp out of the morass his career has sunken into over the last decade. He is riveting as Whitey Bulger, the Boston crime lord. He dominates.  He seems to almost pulsate with evil, dragging friends, family, and law enforcement down into his own personal quagmire. I was away, in the Army, from the Boston area during the zenith of his criminal career which is still rife with Whitey stories.

There are those, such as the woman I’m married to, who doesn’t think Hollywood should “glorify” criminals on film. This movie does the opposite, it shows him as the demented sociopath he is while shining a light on the pervasive quality his evil infected any who came in contact with him. Chief amongst those was his FBI enabler, played with gusto and a really bad wig by Joel Edgerton, continuing his strong run of roles. There’s a robust attempt to capture a sense of “Southie”, Bulger’s main stalking ground and about a 30% success rate for the Australian and British actors with the signature Boston accent. Certainly not a date film (as ably demonstrated by my experience) but a fascinating look into the face of true immorality.

Its official, Lawrence Block, with his protagonist Matthew Scudder has officially elevated themselves into my pantheon of literary super-heroes with my latest read, A Ticket to the Boneyard. This label is reserved for those whose stories I cannot put down, careening through the prose so fast and at the cost of ignoring life until I finish. Scudder is the first inductee into that august company of Lucas Davenport, Hieronymus Bosch, Travis McGee, and several others since Jack Reacher. I stayed up late and extended lunch over the past two days to finish this latest book. Scudder has an old case from his days as a policeman come back to haunt him and some of the women unlucky enough to associate with him. Scudder just can’t catch a break in the female department. He rightfully framed (if that’s even possible) a  deliciously talented psychopath twelve years prior. Said psycho gets out of prison and embarks on a series of murders of friends and associates of Scudder, promising to save him for last.

While Scudder was the hero, he certainly takes his bruises in this one as the psycho has a Hannibal Lector suite of skills to employ. Scudder is still struggling at times with his now years long sobriety and reads the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius throughout this adventures. He’s got a few layers. That’s what draws me to Scudder as a hero, he’s not pretty but possesses an infallible sense of justice. This whole plot sparked from an indiscretion, a failure to follow the rules, for all the right reasons (this psycho definitely needed to be off the street) so an interesting consideration of “doing the right thing”.

Here are some of Block’s words from the book, after Scudder almost takes a drink and beats the hell out of a young man who was annoying everyone with an overly loud boom box (for those of us who remember what those were – the beating was earned):

“The rage that had empowered me had not been quite strong enough to shut out the little voice in my head that told me to cut the shit and act like a grownup. I’d heard the voice, just as I heard it before when it counseled against buying the booze. There are people who never hear their own inner voices, and maybe they can’t honestly help the things they do in life, but I’d heard it loud and clear and told it to shut the fuck up. I’d caught myself just in time. I hadn’t taken the drink, and I hadn’t kicked the kid’s head in, but if those were victories they struck me as small ones. I didn’t feel very proud of myself.”

Scorched Teens, Customs and Papal Arrival

I think I’ve got this whole early morning trip into Logan Airport down to a science. I made the trip there yesterday to drop off the Panamanians and returned to Worcester in less than two hours. I cautioned everyone the night before that a delay of even fifteen minutes (small change in Latino timeliness efforts) would result in significant delays due to commuter traffic into Boston. My wife was a little skeptical, having endured a lifetime of my stratagems to get her to places on time. Traffic is strange. It felt like we were riding the crest of a huge wave as we drove in. We were at the speed limit (dare I say a bit over) but there was an impressive amount of cars out with us.

What the Mass Pike Looked Yesterday on our way Home
Luckily we were West Bound (left side)

After the hurried drop off at Logan we had a much more leisurely drive back to Worcester and I was able to demonstrate the importance of those fifteen minutes I preached about the night before. Traffic was at a virtual standstill for nearly ten miles on the eastbound road we had just traversed. I took, of course, this opportunity to point this out to my wife, for the historical record. It’s not often that a man wins a valid point with his wife, or is that just my marriage?

The Panamanians arrived safely home but ran into problems with Panamanian customs. I’ve written long and decidedly eloquent odes to my wife’s luggage packing ability. It usually consumes several days before any trip to Panama. She offered her advice to the departing young Panamanians but they claimed they knew better. One of the things she recommended was the removal of price tags from the vast results of their US shopping sprees. She knows whereof she speaks because the customs officers required them to pay import duties on one entire suitcase filled with the exact items my wife warned them about. I always take her packing advice, not that I really have a choice.

My wife, good Catholic that she is (and certainly not a fanatic), is currently enthralled with the Pope’s arrival in the US. I am potentially the world’s worse Catholic but I really like this guy’s style. He eschewed the pomp and circumstance he could avail himself of and tries to remain a simple man. I think this is kind of what Peter had in mind back in the day. The pope didn’t ride from the airport yesterday in some massive limo but in a simple Fiat. I hope some bishops and cardinals were paying attention.

Pope Stylin Yesterday Upon Arrival

In fantasy football news the Cantankerous One has yet to be heard from proclaiming his undefeated status. My sister, on the other hand, took me to task for not mentioning yesterday that she and my brother in law’s team were likewise unencumbered with a loss. My brother in law pointed out that she didn’t handle winning with a lot of polish, probably from her lack of experience with it.

Since I re-acquired my wife with the departure of the Panamanians we went to date night last night and saw Maze Runner: The Scorch Trials. The same bunch of fun loving teens that escaped the maze in the first picture now have to deal with a rapidly expanding world that is mostly destroyed. There’s a very convoluted plot as to why these teens are so important, especially since in the first movie the corporation who values them so much now spent a lot of time and effort killing them off. What the hell, it’s science fiction, plot holes be damned!

The group spends the entire movie running from a variety of threats ranging from said corporation, to zombies, to Gus Fring with his face grown back. That brings up a major problem I had with chase scenes. The trail runner would invariably stop to gaze back in wonder at the imminent, and usually very deadly threat, pursuing them. This made no sense on any level, except for the dramatic effect of a close up for the actor. We get it – you’re being chased, turn around and run! Other than that minor, but very irritating point, I liked the action scenes which added a lot of tension. While this was obviously a set piece to get us to the third movie I liked it.

A Cut Above

I’ve just returned from yet another early morning drive to Logan International Airport to drop off the latest wave of Panamanian visitors. They were a really fun group but this week’s change to more autumnal weather certainly wasn’t as welcome as they thought it would be. They were good sports, after determining we hadn’t turned up the air conditioning overnight. My wife was ready with a set of sweaters and coats to mitigate the low temperatures completely out of the realm of experience for these tropical personages.

They spent their last day in the USA doing what I’ve come to realize is required, a frantic final shopping expedition. My wife expertly sheparded them through all her very good friends, Macy’s, Marshalls, TJ Maxx, and of course The Christmas Tree Shoppe. They were left a little in awe of her prowess by the end of the day. I assured them she had honed her skills through extensive practice over the years.

I was a little thrown last night when I turned on the Monday night football game to find all the programming in Spanish. The young Panamanians had figured out how to select the SAP on our very complicated remote and then forgotten to switch it back to English when summoned by the shopping master. It’s funny that the facility of youth with technology certainly extends across borders as these two delightful young people only needed a couple basic instructions on the remote before they were doing things with it I didn’t know were possible. They returned in time to show me how to switch back to English.

My fantasy football team struggled into the win column for the first time despite the best effort of Andrew Luck to set an all-time low for points from a quarterback, he was still in negative territory heading into the fourth quarter. Fortunately I had the Jets defense also which was intercepting his passes and picking up his fumbles. We beat the Wingman and my wife promptly declared she felt bad for him, saying we shouldn’t pick on him. I don’t think she gets the whole concept yet. The Cantankerous Friend has one of the only two undefeated teams left and I’m sure we’ll hear his thoughts on that development shortly.

My Closeup

Late in the evening my wife cajoled me into showing the Panamanians the extent of my Hollywood film career, all three seconds of it. I was in the film Gardens of Stone back in the 1980s and watching it now I'm constantly reminded, usually by my wife, how skinny I was back then. Always a confidence booster but I did enjoy sharing it with them and explaining some of the military traditions the movie explores. I was pretty svelte.

I finished the next in Lawrence Block’s most excellent Matthew Scudder novels, Out on the Cutting Edge, yesterday. A now sober Scudder is trying to track down a girl missing for several months when a friend from AA mysteriously dies. The seemingly impossible case challenges Scudder whose dogged pursuit of the truth eventually leads to a very unpleasant social impact when the two cases intersect. His luck with women remains consistently unfortunate.

Scudder is a hero truly worthy of admiration not because of any truly special talent other than a deep, world weary sense of justice. He’s not some supercop hyper-skilled with weapons but a simple man seeking redemption on so many levels for mistakes made earlier in life. I get the impression Block loves Scudder but feels the need to line his path in life with tragedy and injustice so he can mount his sprung horse to find justice through tarnished knight errantry.  Scudder will never be “pretty” or “cool” but is so compelling. I’ve already started the next in the series. A sample from this latest, when Scudder is awoken in the early morning by a mysterious phone call:

“It was a quarter to five. It had been past two by the time I turned the light out, so I’d had less than three hours. I sat on the edge of the bed and went over the conversation in my mind, trying to find a deeper message behind the words, trying to place the voice. I had the feeling I’d heard it before but couldn’t draw a bead on it. I went into the bathroom and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink. All my years looked back at me, and I could feel their weight, pressing down on my shoulders.”

Beantown Walkabout

The Panamanians in the Public Garden

My wife made up an itinerary for the visiting Panamanians without consulting me or paying any attention to the National Football League schedule. We’ve been married long enough for her realize that Sunday afternoons in the latter part of the year are sacrosanct, especially since the advent of the Red Zone. She chose to rely on her feminine wiles and those dashing brown eyes to convince me that being a tour guide in Boston instead of watching the Patriots game was a better use of my time, especially since I was nursing the after-effects of a Saturday too well spent.

My Favorite Panamanian by the Rose garden

What can I say, I’m powerless when confronted with those eyes. I did save the game on the DVR and spent the afternoon dodging into the odd food truck we ran across to ask what the score was. My wife is not a huge fan of walking but that was required yesterday. I went with my standard repertoire which meant parking in the Boston Common garage and fanning out from there. I hoped the Patriots game would keep the crowds down but it was too glorious a late summer day for New Englanders to stay cooped up. There’s no telling how many more of these we’ve got before Mother Nature drops the winter hammer.

By George's Statue

George Maintaining

My pop culture references are becoming dated because the first stop on my tour was Cheers and the younger Panamanians had no clue what TV show I was talking about (guess it has been a while). Luckily the Public Garden was just across the street and the late summer flowers were in full bloom. George Washington still presided over the garden with his stately glower and my wife found a special garden devoted to roses.

Gardens were Beautiful

Then it was up Boylston Street in search of the Marathon Finish line. The beggars had the street fully lined in anticipation of the tourist trade. We ran across a guy in his young twenties who was begging outside Copley Square. My wife firmly declared he was too young to be doing this (unaware there is no age limit). She elicited his full, if I’m sure well edited, life story and then told him he was young enough to work and should look for employment. One of the standard Bostonians liberal residents was walking by and saw my wife talking with this young hero. Afterwards she came up and thanked my wife because so many people just walk by and ignore the street people. My wife gave me one of those, “Told you so” looks after this.

Copley Square

My tour guide rep took a serious hit when I missed the finish line since a major construction project had a lot of the area fenced off. We ended up two blocks further than needed. I recovered by telling them they should see the route as the runners did when finishing after we turned around to walk back up the route and it was part of the experience. (I don’t think they bought it either)

We Did Eventually Find It

Following a trek back to the Common we ran into a huge display of vintage and ultra-expensive cars all over the Common. There was also some sort of Indian (the real ones with all the curry) festival. There were signs up preaching vegetarianism and that eating animals was tantamount to murder. I guess I should shelve any plans to visit that sub-continent as they’ll probably have pictures of me up as one of history’s biggest mass murderers. After that sobering thought we reached the state house where my wife staged a mini-sit down protest for all the walking required. I got her on her feet by reminding her of the closeness of the Quincy Market and a bread bowl full of chowder. My wife’s friend’s son became intimately acquainted with Sam Adams during the prior night’s Oktoberfest celebration so we took time to pose next to that statue. I tried, I think unsuccessfully, to point out Sam was not a famous brewer.

One of the Cars on the Common

My Wife's Sit Down Protest

After dodging all the street acts including the hip hop juggler, who did a lot more talking than juggling, the Panamanians descended on the food court and the promised chowder. I took up station outside a nearby bar so I could watch the 4^th quarter of the Patriots’ game. I know I should have avoided learning the outcome in order to be surprised when I watched the game later but who am I trying to kid, like that was going to happen. My wife, observant person that she is, pointed out after we linked back up that I’d been watching the game with fly down. I’m sure the paying patrons at that bar appreciated that, all part of the Quincy Market experience!

Legendary Patriot Sam Adams With his Newest Fan

More Recent Patriot Reminding the Bills of the Proper Food Chain

After pursuing their own strong suit of shopping we made our way home. I then exposed my young Sam Adams aficionado to the glory that is the Red Zone’s touchdown montage. We watched the Pat’s game together which was cool since I knew they won and could fast forward through the endless commercials and “analysis”. Brady continued in full assassin mode making opponents pay for the indignities he’s suffered over the past few months.

This was a different town but the same old bombastic Rex Ryan. His team played with the usual chip on their shoulder and an appalling lack of discipline. This could provide the first chink in his love affair with the fair city of Buffalo. He should just kneel down and acknowledge he can’t compete as a game coach with Belichick. It’s almost unfair but so much fun to watch. 

Honeymoon's Over Rex