Tuesday, July 30, 2002

Boston Massacre sans Tea Party

The lost weekend of sorts originates diagonally across from the Manhole with uncharacteristic tapas and immediately blurs, a wavy television scriggle just after "and the home of the brave". Ray Milland, both hands grasping a sweating glass of sangria, whispers for everyone to wake up. "Time to go, time to fly," he coos and magically the winds push large white clouds speedily by.

We land near Plymouth Rock ahead an hour multiplied four times. A pilgrim points the way, leaving us to follow a crooked zigzagging line of red paint and red brick backward toward Protestant sanctuary amidst gray inscribed obelisks and worn shaled headstones. But halfway our progress halts for oysters on the half shell in Union near a public meetingplace adjacent four million numbered tattoos stretched skyward. Alas no ice and no juice is just the best of a headache, stomach rumbling in rebellion. Siesta cures what ails us enough to sue for enough clams to surf on turf though.

Legally redeemed thusly is solid logic for the Big Easy and its high-decibelled pseudo circa Top Twenty Mardi Gras. Center stage saw spasmatic middle-aged leg stomps as if cramped only to disorient on both knees expelling repeat offensive flatuence. Thar she blows and call me Ismail as we sounded retreat, sleeping past all alarms for a poetic rendevous mid-morning. Later our trip to bountiful is interrupted momentarily through ancient (and pilfered) Chinese sculpture, over-sized Theirren stacked plates, table and chairs and stainless steel balloon poodles, but resumes north end up. Handwriting analyses indicates pasta or simple, old-fashioned spaghetti and meatballs as prelude to a missed sunset cruise on the Love Boat. Then coordination and finally it is sushi dreams and martini wishes at Bluefin and Barcode via the reflecting pool under a torrential downpour.

Again morning becomes Electra craving congee and roast duck while waiting for nonexistent storms to subside.