Monday, December 20

Boston City

Took the Acela up to Boston to, in the words of the Eagles, "comfort an old friend who's feelin' down."

Had never been before. It was a nightmare! Spooky freaking suburbs dominated by those antique church steeples hovering over the landscape like Martian warships from War of the Worlds, woodlands straight out of the Blair Witch Project, gas stations manned by bored girls dreaming of riding that train to the big city and secretly dating cabbies ten years too old for them. "The cab stand is by the Dunkin Donuts. Tell Bill Samantha really wants to see him." Sure enough, it's Bill who arrives. He's a creepy hockey fan type who looks a lot like Michael Moore. The Red Line broke en route to Harvard Square, dumping me out on the Boston Commons. Fortunately there was WiFi beaming out of the Old North Church and I was able to call up a map on my Pocket PC and plot the alternative route on the Purple Line out of the Fleet Center. Creaking old commuter line, flashback to the 1950s.

Otherwise, my cellphone went on the fritz on the morning of departure, had to spend most of the weekend unconnected to the Foca, who was attending an All-American wedding in Ben Salem, Pennsylvania.

This old ditty kept running through my head all weekend:

I was born in Boston city boys, a place you all know well Brought up by honest parents, the truth to you I'll tell Brought up by honest parents and raised most tenderly Till I became a sporting lad at the age of twenty three. My character was taken and I was sent to jail My parents tried to bail me out, but found it was in vain The jury found me guilty, the clerk he wrote it down The judge he passed my sentence, I was sent to Charlestown. I see my aged father, and he standing by the bar Likewise my aged mother, and she tearing of her hair The tearing of those old grey locks, and the tears came mingled down Saying,"Johnny my son what have you done that you're bound for Charles-town." There's a girl in Boston city, boys, a place you all know well And if e'er I get my liberty, it's with her I will dwell If e'er I get my liberty, bad company I will shun The robbing of the Munster, and the drinking of the rum. You lads that are at liberty, should keep it while you can Don't roam the street by night or day, or break the laws of man For if you do you're sure to rue, and become a lad like me A-serving up your twenty-one years in the Royal Artillery

Did get some heavy reading done: A book on derivatives by the rival Risk Waters Group and Best Practices of the Business Press from the ASBPE. Of course, I then proceeded to LEAVE THE FREAKING BOOKS BEHIND ON THE FREAKING TRAIN. Either that or the Foca "put them away" somewhere you'd never guess to look. Kind of a pack rat, that Foca. Embarrassed to say it, but played a long session of Myst IV on the trip back in business class. Stuck on the animal planet.


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