Records from the Last House in Cambridge...and Beyond

Seth and I were on a bike ride Saturday. We circled the Cambridge Reservoir at Fresh Pond, explored industrial Cambridge Highlands, then cut down a hilly street toward Arlington. I slowed down to check out a yard sale, said hello to the African-American mother and her three kids who were holding it, and kept rolling. Seth stopped behind me. "They have records," he said. I reluctantly went back, dropped my bike on the sidewalk, and walked down the driveway to the cardboard boxes filled with black columns of vinyl.

Holy shit. Someone really knew what they were buying back in the 60s and 70s. I spent nearly an hour on the ground going through piles of scratched-up, sleeveless records. I recognized a bunch of names from funk compilations, like The Beginning of the End and Stoned Soul Picnic, and I found some personal favorites and big-name standbys like Bohannon and Earth, Wind & Fire. I'm actually going to buy a record cleaning kit from radioshack.com and maybe get a real turntable from ebay. My only turntable remains the cardboard suitcase one I received for doing well on my first report card in 1986.

In terms of rarity (but not quality), this vinyl find might outdo my last biggest one, at a thrift store in Saint John, New Brunswick. It was a chilly October Saturday in 2004, and I was staying over the weekend during a two-week work trip. (I later found out I was pretty much the only salesperson at my company who did such things.) Some dude had just up and left for Halifax, the New York of the Maritimes. He'd sold his awesome vinyl collection to the store the day before. A kid had just gone through the bins and removed all the 80s rap. I feared the collection would have been decimated, but found tons of funk and soul, including a near-mint copy of Idris Muhammad's House of the Rising Sun and a ton of Kool & The Gang (but not their rare debut, which I foolishly passed up at an 80% discont in Lawrence, KS on the KC Siege). On the Saint John trip, I even scored some Average White Band for my then-almost-girlfriend, whom I remember missing a lot during the lonely weekend without cellphone service.

Onward, etc.

Cantab, 3.7.09

Cameraphone Photo: "Versus the Empties"

Best Cantab night yet. We witnessed a protracted physical fight between woman and man, which involved the much shorter female throwing a drink at the male, then trying to claw the male's shirt apart. The male willingly and aggressively fought back, like a total piece of shit...during "Love Train," no less.

The band was ON tonight, and I don't think I've ever seen them turn in a finer performance. Diane Blue's harmonica solos were earth-shattering. The Couper brothers played like they hadn't played the same show every weekend for the past X years. Candy was not fucking around, and never hit a bad note.

But Bruce the Goose, the formidable sax player, stole the show with his ability to make everything and anything better with the breathy blow of his horn.

I went into the bathroom to take a piss. Bruce the Goose entered behind me. The toilet was occupied, and the urinal was free. I conceded my turn to Bruce. "You can have my turn," I said, and began to exit. "You're a fucking monster on that thing." Bruce the Goose nodded as if he expected this, walked by me, looked at the sink, and looked back at me.

"Dude, someone fuckin' yakked in the sink," was all he said.

Warren the bartender was true to his nature. Even though we tried to avoid him, he managed to find me and act like a complete scumbag. The next time I entered the bathroom, I found him there, taking a piss. He looked at me with his beady eyes, while still pissing, and said, "You can't wait outside, you fucking asshole?" He shook his head and made a clicking sound with his fat, fat lips. "Now I have to go to the kitchen to wash my hands, you fucking asshole."

I looked him dead in the eyes and said, "You're a negative person." He sulked off, and I hope he washed his hands.

Out in the street, it was a party in Central. No police this time. As is often the case in Boston, no one met anyone, and everyone went home with the people they came with. Frat boys returned to talking about playing Halo all day. Girls ushered girls into cabs and left immediately.

We ran into Bruce the Goose again, and I mentioned something about being a musician. He said to come to the open mic he hosts near Faneuil and handed me a crumpled flyer from his pocket. I said something in resoponse.

"Just bring your shit," he said, and walked off.

Andrew greeted random people on the street. We could have fought some guys from Brazil, but they were actually friendly and we alternatingly traded turns for pizza at Hi-Fi. I declared war on the hoarders of the hot pepper and the parmesan, taking their shit and telling them that this is how it works in the city.

Outside, some african-americans were giving an asian american a hard time. "I'm a grown-ass man. I'll slap you with a grown-ass hand," said the young-looking "thirty-six year old" af-am to the marauding asian who kept telling him that he didn't mean any disrespect by calling him "boy."

A much larger african-american took the-asian american aside and told him: "You don't say boy, man. You don't say boy,man."

Boys and men and all the girls are all gone. A cab offered to take us home, so home we went.

I. Go back to Vermont and die II. Cardiac Nurse

I. At the conclusion of the workweek

after contemplating the THREE drivers who ran solid reds at powderhouse sq in an attempt to run me over
i try to cross mass ave at porter sq
white Nissan approaches at 'high rate of speed'
vermont plates
i am crossing from center in crosswalk; tools in jackets are crossing form other side
car does not slow
i stop in crosswalk, make WHAT THE FUCK gesture
car immediately and purposefully veers directly at me, then swerves away at last second, missing me by inches
rules of engagement for car punching immediately met
car punched; bitchslapped with open palm
fat orca fuck behind the wheel starts cursing me out over his fat c*nt of a passenger
TRY HARDER NEXT TIME ASSHOLE i say
"they're from vermont..." say passers-by
GO BACK TO VERMONT AND DIE
learn how to fucking drive while you're at it
fat fuck omits phrases about me being a faggot and how he'll kill me
fat c*nt sits there terrified
i catch up to car on foot....around here that's a crime, i say

hours pass. then i am smoking with julia the cardiac nurse in front of christopher's
who turns out to be my neighbor
who works in a a cardiac ward with ablation patients
I was an ablation patient when I was 13!!!
when ablations were experimental
things are going great
then her friends exit christopher's and see her talking to a boy
they immediately attempt to sabotage
she says thanks but no thanks; i'll walk
i say WE COULD SPLIT A CAB, NEIGHBOR!!!
they say NO YOU ARE GETTING IN A CAB AND TAKING A CAB BY YOURSELF TO YOUR HOUSE
she tries to get rid of them
she looks at me but they do not
they hail a cab and put her in it and send her home
then they stand there and look like c*nts

and that is that

Cambridge Police: Strong Douchebag Potential After Midnight

Officer in car on right tells me I'm violating "the wiretapping statute" by "videotaping" flashing lights. Officer standing behind me tells me I'm blocking traffic by not standing on the curb and in the already blocked street. "WE'RE MAKING ARRESTS!" Apparently it takes about a dozen douchebags in five crown vics and a wagon to arrest two more douchebags punching each other outside a frat bar. Waste of time, guys. Perhaps all douchebags involved should read up on the First Amendment.

If it's not a secure crime scene and it's in public view, it's fair game, with or without meritless intimidation.

All files I created at this scene, which was clearly under control, were images without audio or video. I normally respect the police, unless they act like douchebags.

WARNING TO CENTRAL SQUARE BICYCLISTS

Cambridge police (on foot) are ticketing bicyclists for running the stoplight at Mass Ave and Pleasant St. They got eight bicyclists for this while I was having lunch nearby, plus ticketed another for biking on the sidewalk in front of 7-11.

Saturday Nights at the Cantab Lounge

I've drunkenly described the Cantab Lounge in Central Square as a "Noah's Ark of humanity," where on a weekend night you'll see one of every type of human imaginable, except for college students (thankfully, the whole 21-plus thing tends to keep them away). You'll see the crazy African-American lady in an Indian headdress with Bluetooth headset. You'll see two short, gray-topped men in black sport coats--the identical twins who play bass and drums in the Fatback Band. You'll hear many heavy townie accents, and you'll usually see quasi-hipsters embarrassing themselves.

Walking into the upstairs bar, you're greeted by off-color cream, blue, and green everything--almost the exact same colors my grandparents painted the basement kitchen of their tiny Queens bungalow. You'll see paintings of halfnaked women and brewer's memorabilia straight from the mid-70s, the period that almost all of the songs in the set will be taken from.

When the band strikes its first note around 10, all the old people hit the floor. Diane Blue, the lead singer/harp player, is usually just showing up with her coffee (the bassist ably handles vocals for a bit). As the scene heats up and the youth arrive, many old people leave around 11 to pass out or mate drunkenly. Then the paradoxes or ironies or coincidences truly begin.

You're in an amusingly decayed, musty warp zone where musically, it's 1975, young and old and black and white dance together, and pretty, apparently single girls amass at the back corner bar too nervous to hit the floor until that third or fourth drink. A feeling builds--excitement? pleasure? enjoyment? Which fits best? The band never runs out of covers. The funky old dude on the strat never hits a bad note; in fact, he actually shreds. Shreds. Sax and harmonica work together to churn out thick melodies that keep asses shaking and mouths smiling.

I always wonder: did I accomplish enough on this visit? Should I have stayed until they kick you out at 2? Should I have flicked my introvert/extrovert switch and spoken to people (girls) I don't know? When will I have the opportunity to go again? It's like being at a high school dance where everything is right and everything is sound and everyone is grown up and they almost know how to be happy, almost.

As a serious realist (which many interpret as "pessimist"), the Cantab gives me hope. To see the musical and sexual and even just observational possibilities amassing is a treat worth the $5 cover charge. The whole atmosphere is like your mother's most loveably flawed dinner recipe: you're not sure whether all the ingredients make sense, but it's home.

F. Star Market

No one seems to realize how overpriced Star Market in Porter Square is. I guess it has something to do with the clientele: yuppies who will pay whatever things cost. I stopped in to buy orange juice last night. A carafe of OJ usually costs $2.50. Not here. $4.69.

That's an additional 88% for nothing (except, maybe, "convenience"). I call it the Cute Yuppie or People Watching Surcharge. But we all know that Market Basket has better peoplewatching, and we all know orange juice should not cost $4.69.