Saturday, April 04, 2009

Dog Terrorism

Dan and I were returning from yet another Rangers loss at the Garden, about five minutes ago, when we found ourselves passing Sabur in Teele Sqaure. One of those freaky joggers who always runs with their shorter-limbed dogs approached us rapidly. The jogger was male, 40ish, and about four foot eight. The dog approximated Spuds, of Bud Light fame, and was considerably shorter than his human companion.

I love dogs, and as the duo passed us on the sidewalk, the dog panting heavily, I swooped playfully torward toward the panting pup. The dog lunged and barked at me as she passed. Dan and I laughed, not having wanted to cause the dog any anxiety. Then we heard a human ranting angrily at us from behind.

"Did you just terrorize my dog?! You think that's funny?! I saw you laugh! You terrorized my dog!"

I turned around and witnessed the four-foot-tall man, paused in the sidewalk on the other side of the Sabur parking lot. His dog stood there and didn't care, panting at the sidewalk during an unexpected break in her run. I asked the guy if he had a problem.

Suddenly, the jogger grabbed the leash and ran toward Dan and me rapidly, covering a distance of about forty feet and stopping almost in my face. The poor dog came along for the ride, her leash in the short man's hand.

"I saw you lunge at my dog!" said the pyscho. "You threatened her! You think that's funny? You think that's funny?!"

"You need to get away from me," I said. Dan lay low and silent, waiting to be provoked. Native New Yorkers know how to win in court.

The dog-creep stepped even closer to me. "You threatened my helpless dog! You think that's funny?! You think that's funny?! Let me tell you something--"

"You need to step back," I said. The guy kept fighting, his adrenaline all up from his jog. I stepped back, and so did he. But he continued to make threatening hand gestures, seemingly suggesting that he would sic the hapless dog on me if I continue to mouth off.

"I think you're a creep," I said, staring the guy in his soulless blue eyes, "threatening me with your dog. Chasing me down with your dog on a leash." I leaned on a parking meter like I didn't care, continuing to stare down the jogger.

The guy froze for a second, then lunged at me once again, stopping mere inches from my face.


"You are a fucking creep," I said, not raising my voice at all. "And you need to get away from me. You need to stop following me now."

"Was I supposed to just leave her there?" the creep said, tugging at the leash. I felt sorry for the dog. "You terrorized her! And you seemed to share a laugh afterwards," he said, looking at Dan, as if we had planned an attack on his pretty dog.

"You need to stop following us NOW," I said, as he pursued us uphill. The pyscho stood there in his jogging attire, leash in hand. I half-hoped that he would lunge at me again so I would have full legal authority to kick the living shit out of him.

But the psycho just jogged off toward Davis, with the dog in tow, and Dan and I returned to my apartment. I hope I don't run into this guy anytime soon.

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Monday, March 30, 2009

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 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.

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Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Argument for Argument's Sake

Check out this 24-post clusterf*** on universalhub about a photo I published earlier in the week.

Note: none of the posts on the linked page were written by me.


Monday, April 21, 2008

Thanks, Universal Hub!

Universal Hub is a great Boston metablog that often links to posts here and brings me all sorts of interesting visitors. Thanks to Adam and the folks over there who author that site and its links to this blog. You guys should have some sort of UH social so that all the bloggers can drink with each other and the commenters who hate me can tell me to my face.