Last night at about 9:30, I realized I didn’t have enough powdered milk to finish making yogurt, so I hopped on my bike for a quick trip to the grocery store. As I rode down Brighton Ave, the breeze was warm and fresh, and the
the bright orange-yellow moon hung low in the sky, just above the Prudential Center as I looked down Comm Ave. I had the impulse to just keep riding, to cruise around the city without any particular destination in mind. But then it occured to me that the Rolling Stones were opening their “Bigger Bang” tour at Fenway last night, providing me a convenient destination. I quickly bought my powered milk, strapped it on my rack, and was on my way.
When I reached Fenway, crowds lined Brookline Ave and the streets on either side of the stadium, everone from teenagers to geezer-rockers dancing and grooving to Can’t Get No Satisfaction, Honkey-Tonk Blues, Jumpin’ Jack Flash.
As I stood looking up at the green backside of Fenway, I thought back to the summer before my senior year of college, when Andrew and I donned our tie-dyed shirts and spent the evening outside the second-to-last Grateful Dead concert ever. We strolled around Deadville in the parking lot of Soldiers Field in Chicago while the sounds of Jerry and Co. jamming floated out of the stadium in the background.
At around 10:30 last night, fireworks lit up the sky over Fenway and Mick bade Boston goodnight, which I took that as my que to make a getaway. An hour of the Rolling Stones at Fenway without having to buy tickets or fight traffic–it felt like I came away with a pretty good deal.
You know you’re in Cambridge/Somerville when you overhear a guy saying loadly into his cellphone,”I mean, what part of ‘englightened self-interest” don’t they understand.'”
When I was back in Fargo a couple weeks ago, my dad greeted me at the door wearing a shirt that said, “What part of ‘Uff Da’ don’t you understand.” It felt good to be home.
(For those of you unfamiliar with the term Uff Da, it’s a norwegan term used to express dismay, disapproval, or disgust. I have fond memories of my grandparents on both sides using it to express themselves. Grandma Lindgren was fond using of its variant, Fi Da, usually when I was teasing her about something.
Apparently, Uff Da’s now being use as a political organizing tool:
Nancy M. alerted me to this unique blog, The Restroom: A journal of design oddities in public restrooms featured today in a Boston Herald article. In my mind, it has the charactersitcs of a fine place blog, combining the observation of places over time, close attention to ordinary experience, a concern for the implication of design choices on our lives. And it’s a local Boston blog to boot.
A diary of living on Lanes Cove, Gloucester, Massachusetts