A lot happened this past week – including Albany and Boston Pride (hence the featured rainbow jockstrap photo, ahem), the release of a new Madonna album and my annual Red Sox weekend with Skip – much of which is extensively documented here. Still on a bit of a high from all of it, let’s encapsulate the moments for posterity. This week officially turns the page from spring to summer, and there is more fun to be had. I just don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. On with the recap!
This is the day we celebrate the Dads in our lives, and mine is certainly worthy of celebration. He’s getting up there in years, and slowing down a bit (as are we all), but every now and then I’ll capture the youthful glimmer of sharp wit or the quick flash of sorrow from a childhood in the Philippines during the war and the early loss of his only sister, and I’ll realize what a great many things he’s witnessed and in which he’s taken part. He is the ultimate example of an immigrant realizing the American dream, and a reminder of what it means to be a noble man in an ignoble world.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad – thank you for everything!
We also take this day to remember Andy’s Dad, who’s been gone two years now but is not forgotten. Dads are always with us.
I SING MYSELF TO SLEEP A SONG FROM THE DARKEST HOUR
SECRETS I CAN’T KEEP IN SIGHT OF THE DAY
SWING FROM HIGH TO DEEP, EXTREMES OF SWEET AND SOUR
HOPE THAT GOD EXISTS, I HOPE, I PRAY
Is there a greater joy than discovering an old album by your new favorite band and sifting through to find the gems that came before? Such were the happy musical hunting expeditions on which I’d find myself in the late 90’s after having happened upon the brilliant ‘Laid’ album by James. They quickly became my favorite band and I was searching through their back catalog when I found this song.
At the time, I was a little bit lost between Boston and Amsterdam, as it was the summer. My summers then, in the almost-post-graduate point of life, were divided between the steamy streets and sullied T-stops of Boston and the stultifying, if comfortably air-conditioned, poolside doldrums of my parents’ home in upstate New York. There were Structure stores in both locations, so I would schedule my shifts according to which location I’d be at, spending a few weeks at each before going back to the other. Somehow I also found time to travel and tour, and since Chris had just moved to San Francisco, there was a reason and excuse to visit that alternately sunny and foggy city.
DRAWN BY THE UNDERTOW, MY LIFE IS OUT OF CONTROL
I BELIEVE THIS WAVE WILL BEAR MY WEIGHT, SO LET IT FLOW
OH SIT DOWN, OH SIT DOWN, OH SIT DOWN
SIT DOWN NEXT TO ME
SIT DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN
IN SYMPATHY
Along with Erasure’s ‘Don’t Say Your Love Is Killing Me’, this song by James became part of my summer lexicon. Chris and I would sit on a hill near Berkeley, smoke silly bidi cigarettes after downing a bottle of Boones, and lament our privileged existence. We were both, admittedly or not, searching for love, and it never seemed to come quite quickly enough. Had we known then what we know now it would have been so much easier to bear, but that’s the conundrum of youth. Too much time, not enough appreciation. Too much beauty, not enough worth.
NOW I’M RELIEVED TO HEAR
THAT YOU’VE BEEN TO SOME FAR-OUT PLACES
IT’S HARD TO CARRY ON
WHEN YOU FEEL ALL ALONE
NOW I’VE SWUNG BACK DOWN AGAIN
IT’S WORSE THAN IT WAS BEFORE
IF I HADN’T SEEN SUCH RICHES
I COULD LIVE WITH BEING POOR
OH SIT DOWN, OH SIT DOWN, OH SIT DOWN
SIT DOWN NEXT TO ME
SIT DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN, DOWN
IN SYMPATHY
On a windy, sunny day we walked past the colorful line of homes immortalized by the opening credits of ‘Full House’ – how badly we all want to be part of the sitcom of life, safely and warmly ensconced on a cozy couch in a living room where nothing but studio laughs and lukewarm drama percolated – nothing too dangerous, nothing too disruptive. We arrived at the beach, where the might of the Pacific Ocean merely whispered along the shore. I knew better than to trust a sunny stretch of sand. Deep in that water and far in the distance swum giants both lethal and innocuous – sharks and whales, and Humboldt squid that wouldn’t give up even when hauled aboard your harvester ships. Leviathans that roamed in the darkest depths… I sensed their presence a thousand miles away, and shuddered in the sun.
We backed away from the ocean, from its immensity and sprawling expanse, from the sudden sense of being so small and insignificant. It would be easier to make sense of the world on a smaller scale, to bring it down to a table and a pair of chairs in a restaurant, where we controlled completely what would arrive, how much butter went on a roll, how many sips of water to take. Among the billions, just two young men beginning their life journeys.
THOSE WHO FEEL THE BREATH OF SADNESS
SIT DOWN NEXT TO ME
THOSE WHO FIND THEY’RE TOUCHED BY MADNESS
SIT DOWN NEXT TO ME
THOSE WHO FIND THEMSELVES RIDICULOUS
SIT DOWN NEXT TO ME
We stepped into a bookstore that Jack Kerouac reportedly frequented. Or maybe they were just featuring his work. The memory grows hazy. A veil is lowered. The fog rose all the way to Nob Hill. Pairs of old men shrouded in cigarette smoke pushed chess pieces across tiny tables, sipping tiny cups of cappuccino. Would this be where we ended up?
Memory lapped upon memory, turning things over and over again, beating the brain into sandy submission. The shores of the past meet the shores of the future and present, but where? How far along will such a sea take us? How far will we need to go?
IN LOVE, IN FEAR, IN HATE, IN TEARS
IN LOVE, IN FEAR, IN HATE, IN TEARS
IN LOVE, IN FEAR, IN HATE, IN TEARS
IN LOVE,
IN FEAR,
IN HATE…
I used to think that by this point in my life I’d have it all figured out. Now I wonder if we’re never supposed to have it figured out. Maybe figuring it all out while we are here is the end of life. The end of seeking. The end of searching. The end of trying. The end of living.
Back then we would cry out in frustration and desperation. In confusion and delusion. Now we cry out in submission and reconciliation, and I’m not sure which is worse.
Our friends are our consolation.
You cannot be completely lost if you are lost together.
It’s been far too long since we’ve had a new Madonna Timeline entry, and since we have a whole new album of cuts to add to the iTunes shuffle roulette wheel we need to get going on the next one. New songs are usually trickier since there haven’t been any memories yet to attach to them, but that just means I have to get more creative. Before any of the new ones crop up, however, this is something linky to whet your appetite, just in case you haven’t had enough Madonna today.
Here’s a semi-random selection of some more recent timelines for your perusal and hopeful enjoyment:
Wacky, wild, weird and wonderful ~ all the superlatives you’ve heard about Madonna’s latest effort ‘Madame X’ are true, and then some. Early indications were questionable, with some die-hard fans finding many (or all) of the pre-release songs lackluster ~ and truth be told they comprise some of the weaker cuts of the album. I happened to be one of the few who loved ‘Medellin’ as a lead-in to the gloriously insane soundscape that ‘Madame X’ ultimately conjures. The duet with Maluma, performed as a holographic party at this year’s Billboard Music Awards, was seen by some as an oddly-muted lead single, but it ushers in a brand-new Madonna, which at this point in her storied career is a major feat unto itself. ‘Madame X’ gives us not one new re-invention, but a dazzling array of personae within which Madonna moves with characteristically-chameleon-like sinew. Whereas image may have fueled past musical endeavors, this time around the look (and it’s an intriguing, multi-faceted, one-eyed siren of sinister sexiness and voluptuous mystique) trails the music in impact. (Take note of the fact that the amazing video for ‘Dark Ballet’ shows only a few seconds of Madonna, cloaked in black lace at that.)
As a whole, ‘Madame X’ functions quite thrillingly as a sonic roller-coaster fit for a scintillating summer. It will invariably be saddled with expectations and a world of social media viciousness, but if you listen to the music you’ll find that everything’s gonna be all right, because the music is more daring and different than anything she’s made in years. That doesn’t always make it better, but it makes itself relevant and meaningful in a three-decade body of work that suddenly feels like an albatross, especially for someone who wants to keep moving forward.
As ‘Medellin’ reaches its giddy release, Madonna invites the listener to take a trip, alternating Spanish lyrics with Maluma and setting the album off on its world-wide trajectory. From there, ‘Dark Ballet’ reveals disturbing hints of tension and unrest, tied up in an insane Tchaikovsky bit over which Madonna gives warning to various entities: “They think we’re not aware of their crimes. We know, but we’re just not ready to act.” Only two songs in, she’s already tried out about five distinctly different voices, from her husky whispered “Cha-cha-cha’s” to the almost-unrecognizably-robotized distortion of ‘Dark Ballet’ and she’s just getting started.
Beginning ‘God Control’ with what sounds like a forced jaw effect, we hear Madonna like we’ve never heard her before. She previously promised ‘I Don’t Give A Fuck’ in 2012’s ‘MDNA’ album, but here she really means it. Even long-time fans of her more daring songs may be surprised by how experimental she’s going with ‘Madame X’ ~ and after finally giving up on chasing past chart glory, there’s a new freedom at work here, even better than her brilliant ‘Rebel Heart’ opus. ‘God Control’ is a highlight, and a powerful encapsulation of this whole new Madonna: exuberant, experimental, and ecstatic in all six-plus minutes of its glory. “It’s a hustle!” she gleefully proclaims at the midpoint, channeling all the disco divas that ever were and ever will be. This glitzy frenzy just keeps building and building until you can envision the final pan-out of a club at its most collectively-throbbing climax, hand-clapping choral chanting transcendently rising to rapture. Beneath it all lurks some troubling commentary on us as a nation, but the music’s so good it almost doesn’t matter, further fueling its potent pack of mixed messages.
An old-world accordion opens the gorgeous ‘Crazy’ and finds Madonna vacillating between joy and despondency, finally and fittingly settling on a certain ambivalent self-empowerment. It’s a piece of pop sweetness ~ captivating melodies and Madonna’s hopeful and mournful delivery. She moves from the high coos of a teenager to the deeper-throated whispers of a very wise and world-weary woman.
‘Crave’ with Swae Lee is deceptively quiet, and it finds Madonna at her most vocally relaxed, cooing like Ariana Grande as skittering high-hats delicately underscore all the obsessive love at hand.
The variety of voices employed here is schizophrenic, but rather than turning things into a disjointed affair, they somehow work to create a cohesive tapestry with their disparate nature. ‘Madame X’ is a skilled shape-shifter, and to her credit Madonna manages to wear multiple hats without ever letting them wear her.
Things falter a bit on the uninspiring ‘Future’ and the dour ‘Killers Who Are Partying’ which quickly falls into Mama-Don’t-Preach muck, but they aren’t bad enough to mar the overall experience of ‘Madame X’, the rest is simply too challenging, too daring, too good. Listen to things pick up whenever Madonna gives in to her new muses, as in the percussive call and response of ‘Batuka’ and the enthralling ‘Come Alive’ ~ all cheeky “I don’t want to blend in, why do you want me to?” attitude like that New York City street urchin from the early 80’s. The new influences of Portugal find delicious fruit in ‘Faz Gostoso’, a rollicking bit of Portuguese aided and abetted by Anitta – irrefutable proof that a good dance song need not originate in the disco, or in English for that matter.
If you’re looking for the ultimate pre-game party-prep track, seek no further than ‘I Don’t Search, I Find’ which locates Madonna back at the apex of 90’s acid-house eleganza. Her icy voice defiantly laments, “There’s no rest for us in this world,” before she gives into the essence of the music, and, finally, enough love.
‘Looking For Mercy’ is a classic Madonna power ballad that grows and grows, ultimately moving beyond a bit of maddening repetition into a clear demonstration of Madonna’s vocal prowess ~ when she cries out for “somebody to teach me to love, somebody to help me rise above” it’s one of the most commanding demonstrations of how stirring her voice can be. ‘Madame X’ could have done with a few more of these moments, and after further listening they may reveal themselves. For now, this is a dense collection of songs that cements her role as artist above all else. More than singer, more than actress, more than movie-maker, more than Madame, Madonna has always and originally been an artist, because an artist is the only thing that can encompass all she hoped to be. ‘Madame X’ returns her to those experimental roots while revealing striking new facets and shadings of her musical legacy. It also marks a way of reconstructing a fractured world, and if the pieces don’t always fit perfectly back together there can be beauty in the cracks as well.
There is a darkness at work here, and ‘Madame X’ is reportedly a direct result of Madonna’s loneliness and search for friends in Lisbon, where meeting up with other musicians at late night jam sessions was a comfort in a strange land. The album is proof that only in music Madonna does find her truest home. We welcome her back from her journey, eager to hear tales of her adventures… and it all sounds absolutely exquisite.
For the early stages of Madonna’s career, I was a semi-casual fan. Strange truth be told, it was my brother who brought the ‘True Blue’ album into our home. I’d loved ‘Like A Virgin’ but was dubious about whether I’d liked anything new by Madonna. (Ahh, to be that innocent and naïve and foolish again…) A true Virgo by nature, it wasn’t yet in me to embrace or look for change, so he ended up getting ‘True Blue’ and I ended up loving it. The same strange lack of excitement greeted ‘Like A Prayer’ – I just couldn’t be bothered with trying something new. Came around in a big way to that album too, even if I almost smashed it to smithereens in a moment of Catholic guilt. One would have thought by the time ‘I’m Breathless’ rolled around I’d have learned that I loved Madonna and she could do no wrong. Possibly, but I took my time getting into the brilliance of that album as well.
It wasn’t until ‘Erotica’ arrived that I was a super-fan, and since then I’ve never slacked. For the ‘Erotica’ album and ‘Sex’ book, I wasn’t even driving yet, so my friend Ann and her Mom brought me to the mall to pick them up. By the time ‘Bedtime Stories’ was released I was in Boston and doing my own thing. (Which consisted mostly of sleazing around Tower Records until the next Madonna single came out.)
At that point a new Madonna album release was an Event in the best and most explosive ways. The date would be marked on my calendar, the school or work schedules shifted for before and after, and a holiday would be born. To this day, I remember dates and time-frames in relation to Madonna album releases. It went this way for a while – the ‘Something to Remember’ ballad compilation, the ‘Evita’ soundtrack, the majestic ‘Ray of Light’, and the magnificent ‘Music’ album were all procured in this same format – a midnight release and a line at Tower Records.
Shortly after the turn of the millennium, however, with all the online leaks and download options, the necessity of standing in line late at night became a thing of the past, and with its passing so too went a ritual. Virgos love our rituals and we find comfort and safety in tradition. Taking it away just because I could download something on my computer may have been easier and faster than a trip to Boston or New York, it also left less of an impact. But that’s how we change and grow. The releases for ‘American Life’ and ‘Confessions on a Dancefloor’ and ‘Hard Candy’ were exciting, but mostly non-events. I’d still thrill to a club or gay bar playing something off a new Madonna album, which probably happened last in New York sometime after ‘Confessions’, but for the most part the releases were muted. There was a slight surge in the excitement level when her 2012 Superbowl performance had me overly-anticipating ‘MDNA’ but when the disastrous leaks of ‘Rebel Heart’ forced an early-but-staggered release, the blush of the single release date was definitely off the rose.
Tomorrow’s release of ‘Madame X’ had, until a few days ago, been relatively leak-free, and the late leaks of the album are coming so close to the real release date that a bit of the old magic and excitement is back. To that end, this lengthy, link-filled post has been written for a bit of Madonna history. All hail Madame X.
I’m not sure where the sudden obsession originated. Probably one of my flippant cockamamie comments on a Peking duck dinner I’d had years ago, or maybe it was something Skip came up with on his own after we toyed with the idea of dinner in Chinatown a while back. Whatever sparked it, the seeds of a proper duck dinner had been planted, and there was no uprooting the stranglehold that the notion had on both our heads, so Peking duck it would have to be. Skip consulted Yelp for a nearby option, and Chef Chang’s came up with a decent body of reviews. It was nearby too, just down the street from Deuxave. I couldn’t even picture a Chinese restaurant there, and I remained skeptical as we walked through the Mall in the middle of Commonwealth, posing for pictures with statues.
A right onto Massachusetts, and suddenly we were there, stepping down into a semi-hidden and completely empty Chinese restaurant that smelled of many good things. Our server spoke little to no English, but we were only there for one dish so it didn’t much matter. Of course, they didn’t have it. Despite what Yelp said, there was not a bit of duck to be had there. We settled for an appetizer of beef tendon, which didn’t sound appealing, but there was beer, and a promise to find a place that had the suddenly-elusive dish. (We tried ordering the beer, but the server didn’t understand, so he ended up taking a photo of menu with his cel phone. That would totally be me as a server. He brought out the wrong beer anyway, so maybe it wasn’t the best method after all.) It turned out that the tendon was actually quite good – and I made a mental note to return at some point to try it out properly. On this particular night, we wanted the duck so we made a hasty exit and hopped on the T to Chinatown.
I knew where the restaurant was, and we were early enough that it was still open, unlike the previous evening when we couldn’t find our way out of a paper bag. (Whatever happened to Chinatown being where all the after-hour eats were available? My how that has changed. Shit was shut down by midnight!) On this evening, however, it was only about 8 PM – plenty of time for a Peking duck sit-down.
This is a dish I’ve only shared with a few special people in my life: my family at the first wedding I ever attended, my Uncle Roberto while visiting him in Washington, DC, and Kira after we were reunited following her decade in Florida. Now a new memory with Skip was being made, and he is a worthy addition to the vaunted folks who have joined me on the ducky adventure. It wasn’t what he was expecting – which is the same reaction I had the first time I tried it. One envisions an extravagant sort of stuffed duck on an elaborate plate that needs to be painstakingly carved in just such a way –which is completely at odds with the simplicity and eat-it-like-a-wrap-in-your-hands method to how it’s served. I think/hope it won Skip over. We took our time, rounding out the meal with a couple of other dishes, downing some Kirin Ichiban beer and happily realizing our ducking goal.
Returning to the condo stoop for a final close-out of the weekend, we looked back on our five previous Red Sox adventures. Each one had its memorable highlights, and we made note of what happened on this trip to add to that memory room. We also looked ahead to next year, making loose plans for what we might do and where we might go, because that’s the best way to alleviate the sadness of bringing such a good weekend to an end.
On certain days, when the sky is clear and the breeze is both cool and warm, the best place to sit is on the steps of a Boston brownstone, watching the world walk by. It was at such a place that Skip and I found ourselves closing out the last afternoon of this BroSox Adventure, drinking a cocktail and the last couple of beers while shooting the shit and recounting the memorable “moments of demarcation” for this trip.
Carrying a pair of cocktails outside, not even bothering to slip on any shoes, we began a round of stoop gazing. I used to do this all the time, and I don’t know how or why I’ve neglected it for the past few years. (Well, part of it was the weather – we haven’t had any that would comfortably allow for us to stay out on the front steps until now.) This entire weekend was ripe for the gazing. You see a lot of humanity – the best and worst of it (such as the ridiculously obnoxious, over-the-top guy on his cel phone screaming ‘Copley Square’ over and over to some hapless friend, and the super-friendly woman who lived around the corner, opining these crazy bike groups that always gathered at the end of Braddock Park) while staring out from the stoop.
It’s one of the nicest places to be people watching, because you can quickly step into the comfort of your own home at a moment’s notice. It was also one of the first things that I loved about the South End: on any given summer night you could find at least a few people mingling on their front steps, sharing a bottle of wine, engaging in casual conversation with all who passed. How strange that such neighborly friendliness was easier found in the city than certain suburban neighborhoods I’ve frequented.
A woman who would pass by numerous times smiled up at us. “Morning!” I said brightly, forgetting it was already 5 PM. She laughed. “Merry Christmas!” Skip shouted. (I got body-bagged, as the stupid say.) None of these jokes will land with as much laughter as when it happened, but this is less for everyone and more for my own memory. Fitting, as it was about this time when Skip explained how Jack would sometimes get upset when he neared the end of a vacation weekend or an event that he had looked forward to for a while, even before it was over. I understood the feeling, as this BroSox Adventure is always a highlight of the year, and it always flies by too quickly.
We stayed on the stoop a little while longer. The fountain sprinkled sounds of falling water in the middle of the street. The Chinese dogwood swayed slightly in the flimsiest of breezes. An idyllic afternoon seamlessly shifted into an idyllic evening. In the near distance, the top of the Marriott Hotel and the Hancock Tower still gleamed in the sunlight.
“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.†~ Ogden Nash
Our days and nights of staying out until the wee hours of the morning are somewhat behind us, so anything beyond midnight is a late night. I think we went a bit after that for our first night, but promptly crashed as soon as we got back to the condo. The night breeze, coupled with the air conditioner and fan, kept things comfortably cool, and we vowed to sleep in as long as possible.
That means different things to parents, and as a non-parent I was happy to sleep a little longer than Skip’s internal alarm clock allowed. He had had the foresight to load some YouTube shows to watch while I slumbered, and once I managed to rouse myself at around 9:30, we were heading out for breakfast and a Newbury shopping expedition for his son Jack. While we struck out on finding Jack’s request from Newbury Comics, we found a decent-enough breakfast at Cafeteria as the rainbow-clad populace of Boston made its way toward the behemoth of its Gay Pride Parade. Having sat for a few hours of the parade with Skip a few years ago, we were happy to side-step it and all the accompanying crowd and noise, staying on its edge along Newbury. We wound our way through the Boston Public Garden before ducking into the relatively quiet corridors of Beacon Hill.
We walked all the way to the river, which was only moderately populated with sun-worshippers and bikers and joggers on such a fine day. Avoiding the parade allowed us to keep relatively clear of the crowds, and the riverfront was too pretty to ignore. We re-traced the steps we had taken in the dark of night last year– seeing them in the light of day which is far prettier. This is one of the rather hidden parts of Boston that the tourists don’t bother to traverse, and I love it all the more for that. We took our time walking back, passing geese and water iris and kayakers, and making loose plans for an afternoon siesta – the highlight of any proper middle-aged guy at the start of summer.
Despite its stature as a city, Boston has a few pockets of peace that make one feel far removed from the hustle and bustle one usually attributes to a cityscape. Along the Charles, below the leafy canopy of mottle sunlight, we walked parallel to the insanity of Boylston Street as if in an entirely-other world. Walking across the overpass brought us back into the cobblestone jungle, where we clung to the brick buildings and the shade they afforded from the afternoon sun.
We had a good hour or two for an afternoon siesta. After that, one final chance for a Peking duck dinner, bookended by sessions of stoop gazing…
After a springtime of teasing and crushing our weather dreams, the atmosphere finally conspired to give us the perfect weekend for our fifth annual BroSox Adventure. Skip and I tore out of Albany into a sun-drenched day, timing our arrival for maximum parking options along with enough time to decompress before the game. Despite such planning, not all goes according to plan, and about halfway there the traffic suddenly slowed to a standstill. There are always little pockets of that on a Friday afternoon, but this looked different. According to Skip’s handy Google maps app, we discovered a long delay because of an accident, and Google was advising to get off and re-enter the Mass Pike right before the location of the accident. It said it would save an hour and twenty minutes, and we needed that time, so off the road we went. A couple of sketchy and rather bumpy roads later, we were back on the Pike with no harm done and no time lost. The universe will always help those who need it, especially if you have a good friend navigating in the passenger seat.
We arrived in perfect time for a visitor’s parking space to opened up right on Braddock Park. As we get older, and our various and often disparate responsibilities become more important and pronounced, a weekend like this is a Godsend. We eased into it quietly and happily, embracing the slower pace, cradled in the air-conditioned hum of the condo. There is something wonderful about stillness and slowing things down. Just one day out of life… we needed a holiday.
A grapefruit aperol gin concoction and a MacCallan on one big rock later, we were setting about to do the single handy-man task that needed doing. A throwback to the much-more-intensive AC-unit installation from a few years ago, we were going to put up a new mirror in the bathroom. Nothing too major, but major enough that Skip insisted on measuring shit, at one point requesting a level that simply didn’t exist in the condo’s drawer of sorely-limited tools. Of course he put it up in professional fashion, making the right design and placement choices when my own questioning indecision had me briefly wondering about various things.
That done, we sat down at the table overlooking Braddock Park, finished our cocktails, and decompressed before getting an Uber to the game. We’re still refining the best schedule to keep when it comes to game day/night, but we have honed it down to a night game, preferably on day one, which is what we did this year, and it worked out brilliantly.
Changing things up was part of the plan. That began with our seats. For the first time, we opted to try out the bleachers. We’d been up close and personal with the players on all of our previous trips. This time we were going to be far out, where Skip assured me there was a more fun scene, with possibly more rowdy fans and a camaraderie that may have gone missing from former locations. Given the Red Sox record this year (and later that night) I wasn’t as keen to see the game all that close-up anyway, so we saved some money and got the cheap seats in the back. They were fine – and the night was glorious weather-wise, so we got a fine view, if from a bit far away.
At one point, a group of four ladies came and sat in the row in front of us. I was only half-listening when I heard Skip say something along the lines of how much they reminded him of the movie ‘Set It Off.’ I promptly excused myself, because that could have gone very, very wrong, so I fled for a couple of draft beers. I returned to find Skip scrolling through the selfies he took with them. Crisis averted. We later ran into them outside the stadium after the game was over and they posed for another picture, which is the featured one that also gives title to this post. Leave it to Skip and the Red Sox to bring the people together.
We’d not had much to eat, other than a few snacks and a Boursin spread at the condo, so Skip returned with two Fenway franks. Part of our whole Cheap Change Boston experience the time around. Despite much spilled mustard – on my bracelets, on my jeans, on my arm – we survived, and were ready for another round of draft beer. Which is utterly ridiculous, but when in Rome…
Skip had received a text to head toward home plate or something, so we headed in that direction thinking there was some connection he had that would suddenly let us into a glass-fronted box seat or free-champagne-land, but after worming our way through Fenway, and popping back in to sing ‘Sweet Caroline’, we realized with the sudden mass-exodus that the Red Sox had already lost the game. We joined the dejected masses departing and ran in to the ‘Set It Off’ gang, took a quick photo, then doubled back to the condo and a long-promised Peking duck dinner.
Various stories have circulated over whose idea this was, but somewhere over the years the notion of a Peking duck dinner was a bucket-list item for Skip. I’d had it a number of times and was game to make it happen for him, so after one more cocktail for the road, we took the T into Chinatown, hoping to find either the 24-hour magical diner that is only there sporadically, or the Chinatown restaurant I knew served the dish.
To be fair, I was not in a totally cognizant state of being able to find much of anything, certainly not an elusive enchanted diner that could disappear at will, nor the Chinatown restaurant that was already closed by the time we got there. I told Skip to pose in front of the entrance to Chinatown, at which point this stranger decided to get in on the act and photobomb the shit out of our night. He appears here because he earned it, and it’s indicative of how our meal went for that night.
We were left with the last dredges of Chinatown restaurants, so we just took the first thing that said they were open. The entire staff seemed to be sitting at the main table, so if we’d had any sense we might have figured out it was closing time. We didn’t. So we ordered. Some lo mein, some fried rice, some beef satay, and some orange chicken. They didn’t do orange chicken, which we found out after waiting for it after finishing the rest of the dishes. A disappointing attempt at Peking duck. Luckily it was only the first night. Skip would get his Peking duck, eve if we had to leave yet another restaurant to do so. But that’s a story for the next post…
We walked back to the condo as Boston Pride swirled around us. We would skirt the main festivities and parade for most of the weekend, which is exactly how I liked it.
