A Safe Working Environment For The Actors

I didn't think much of it, because I liked hanging around in that cemetery. But, looking back on it, if any of the staff of that clinic had looked out the window and noticed that I was mulling about in the cemetery across the street for nearly a full hour following getting tested for HIV, I imagine they'd have thought me to be fairly strange. But it didn't occur to me at the time. Like I said, I liked hanging around in that cemetery. I'd been there more times than I'd been to that clinic, anyway. We were friends first.

I sent Kris a test message, confirming my "non-reactive" result. "Let's rumble." Very sexy. And went about the merry business of re-finding my favorites. Yes, I have a couple of favorite headstones. One has always stood out in particular. It stands over the grave of a fellow who died at the brittle old age of twenty. If that reality isn't disappointing enough, the little poem on the grave comes off, well, just plain bitter.

Stop here my friend & drop a tear
Think on the dust that slumber here
And when you see this date of me
Think on the glass that runs for thee

All right, thanks, Mr. Samuel Prentis.

Kris arrived while I was mucking about near the more "recent" graves from the mid-1800's, and told me to follow him. We ducked into some building belonging, apparently, to Emerson. It took a while, as he knew seemingly everyone along the way and, ever the social butterfly, stopped to catch up in full sentences where I might've been satisfied with a knowing nod of recognition without ever so much as breaking stride.

I asked, once or twice, where it was that we were going. "You'll see."

All right, thanks, Kris.

I thought maybe he'd steal us away to some dark prop room where we'd screw on a dresser once owned by Bertolt Brecht or something. I could get with that.

An elevator ride brought us to a room with a beautiful view, overlooking not just my little cemetery but a solid stretch of Boston Common, and just as the sun was dimming down over the horizon into uninspiring grays and yellows. A perfect fall sunset; no fuss, all surrender. And I'd have been quite content if he had brought me there exclusively to take in the view, but it turned out he was sneaking me into a rehearsal for the upcoming MacBeth, in which he would be playing the role of MacDuff.

I had told him how I enjoyed theater folk, having done a bit of musical theater as a child. I greatly enjoyed it, and though I lost my singing voice and my confidence both quite permanently with the onset of puberty, I had never lost my love of the theater. Well aware of the fact I can no longer hit a note or even enunciate well, my fantasies of theater glory mostly entail volunteering for stage crews and getting drunk at cast parties. When Kris mentioned in passing that he might cast me in a piece he had to direct for a course, I balked. But this? This was just.

The most fun to be had, I had always thought anyhow, was before and after the shows. Rehearsals in sweatpants, with frequent directorial interruption, and the dismantling of beautiful ersatz trees and buildings to the hum of power screwdrivers in reverse only hours after the curtains had closed on the final night. Personalities without the leashes of their characters. I was quite content having relinquished any claim on a role other than voyeur; the evening was promising.

Additionally, it was a moment of truth. Kris, I'm sure, was without suspicion. But the game was afoot.

I have the merciless tendency to assume that just about everyone sucks, artistically. I think a lot of things are terrible, including the vast majority of the output of people who could be considered professional. Unfair as it may be, if someone fancies himself an artist -- through whatever outlet -- and I disagree, I tend not to fancy him at all. My negative opinion of the work can seep to the work's creator. My judgmental ways get loose like a bad dog and, with no regard for their master's will, usually end up chewing the heads right off the neighbor's kids.

Kris wanted to be an actor, and if I didn't find myself buying into his dream, my options seemed unpleasant. To risk telling him the truth of my opinion, and see if he would stick around with someone who didn't believe in him, or to put on a more brilliant performance of my own, showering him in words of encouragement the way a preschool teacher must praise every finger-painting. It was actually at one of his performances that we'd met, and he seemed capable, but the material he was delivering that evening wasn't exactly Shakespeare.

But this was. This was, exactly, Shakespeare. And fortunately, it turned out that Kris could act.

I was all sorts of delighted with the day. As I picked at the little Band-Aid on my HIV-negative finger, tucked away under a table alongside the wall, I followed the script while the Emerson students rolled through MacBeth, MacDuff up to snuff.

The next day, Kris told me he'd received an e-mail from the stage manager, chastising him for bringing his boyfriend to the rehearsal, on the grounds that he had jeopardized "the safe working environment" that she and the director try to create and maintain for the actors. Kris was furious. I was annoyed, and felt vaguely guilty for having been there and getting him in trouble, though rationally I knew I hadn't really committed any crimes here.

We vented to one another about how were now in lockstep with our hatred of the girl for about five minutes, and it then dwindled into something we'd joke about it in completely poor taste. The damage had been done, and it wasn't as if they were going to go out and find another MacDuff over it, so I decided against allowing it to serve as a sour, sullying aftertaste for an otherwise fun experience, and I was doing just, just a wonderful job of it.

That bitch.

I decided to attend both performances of MacBeth that played, returning for the second night despite having discovered, on the first, that the performance space had a suffocating micro-climate the likes of which could induce church faint in small children and the elderly. I got there very early to make sure I scored a seat; the small space filled up very quickly, and though I felt a bit greedy occupying a seat on both nights, I also felt like a good boyfriend.

The only other people who got there as early as I did on the second night were carrying a big bouquet of roses. They were very clearly someone's parents. When other obvious parents arrived, their parental conversation carried to my ears, and with it came the news that the flowers were for none other than that "bitch" of a stage manager. Roses. For a stage manager. There's no people like show people.

Only a short while into Act I, something began to go wrong. There was a heavy black curtain from which the actors would enter and exit the in-the-round stage. It was held up by a sort of frame made of rather heavy metal poles, immediately adjacent to where I was sitting, and the structure were coming loose.

Each time an actor or actress would enter or exit the scene, the frame would sway, rattle, and threaten to collapse. After two instances of this, during which I thought it unimaginable that no one running the show had done anything, I was getting a little concerned. The third time, the sway was even more dramatic, and I was convinced that without some sort of remedy, the unit would come crashing down, possibly onto one of the players.

So, on the fourth time, I caught the frame in my hands, and stabilized it. I did this for the rest of the play. MacBeth isn't very short. In a hot, stuffy underground room when you're holding up a small scaffolding unit while trying to focus enough to be able to offer constructive criticism after the show, a single performance of MacBeth runs for -- I have learned -- nine hours, three days, and one month.

When the performance ended, and all the bows were taken and then actors headed back through the curtain to change and exchange accolades, I let go of the metal poles and left my seat, following the flow of parents and other attendees to the narrow exit. But my path was cut off by a girl carrying the roses from before. She introduced herself as Sarah, the stage manager, and thanked me extensively for not only being there to attend the show, but for helping avoid disaster by keeping the metal poles from crashing down during the performance.

She then ushered me out so that the limited set could be dismantled.

For a moment, during the conversation, the part of me that really enjoys starting shit was lighting up like a Christmas tree. The urge to introduce myself was powerful. "Oh, you're the stage manager? I'm Kris's boyfriend. And really, happy to help. I'm glad I could help create and maintain a safe working environment for the actors." The words were locked, loaded, and so ready for launch that I practically salivated.

Instead, I said nothing.

Kris cracked open the door to the performance area shortly after that, to check in with me. When I told him about the encounter, Kris said he thought I should've pulled the trigger. For all I could tell, he was genuinely disappointed about the missed opportunity to send a barb in the direction of the stage manager.

I figure it was simply unnecessary. I figure Mr. Samuel Prentis would agree with me. But I told Kris he was right, and he seemed to believe I meant it. He said he had to go back to the dressing area to change so we could leave, and with that, I bowed back into the lobby.

Bravo.

Hadley Says I Should Update My Blog

Though I've done my best to keep myself "off the grid" in many respects -- no Facebook, no MySpace, no LinkedIn -- as it were, I have now officially made my YouTube debut.

At least I did it in style; drunk on Jack Daniels in a thunderstorm, posing for pictures taken by people who refer to me as "Zeus."

A second cameo has already appeared, featuring the rancid bitch from whom I saved two drunken comrades the following evening.

To you, sagging hotel bar strumpet, I say this: No, I don't believe Chipper Jones could lick your fucking clit.

One Of The Finer Things In Life

Catch Up

I cannot keep up with my own life. It's a good thing, I think. Once upon a time, things were so mundane and relatively slow-paced -- perhaps because I refused to attend eighty percent of my classes in college and then for a good while after that refused to actually work a job -- that I was able to weave delicious yarn from even the most untellable tales.

And now, as my life becomes a luscious tale the likes of which the producers of Limetime Originals would literally salivate over, and each delectable detail tosses itself on the pile, I find myself utterly incapable of keeping pace.

I will, nonetheless, try. And pictures will help.

When I last left off, I'd just met long-lost family members all of whom with I'm quite taken. The following weekend, I was headed to Miami.

I left on a Thursday afternoon, and a small contingent of coworkers saw me off at the front door as though it was the bon voyage ritual for a cruise. T-Rex had me to the airport with plenty of time to get through security and then calm down my relatives by phone before taking flight.

My flight was unspectacular. The smell of babies, an unprovactive in-flight feature ("Bolt"), a flaming flight attendance, and a loudmouthed woman who -- having spotted my iPhone earlier on -- insisted I read her the live scores of the Celtics game when we landed, as though I was her subordinate. She had trouble getting her luggage down as we unboarded the plane, and though I had to shove my junk up against her ass to escape, I slipped past her just the same, and made my way off into the winding depths of Miami International.

I confirmed my survival to various family members as I tugged my bag along, and was delighted to see, for what was the first but, with any luck, not the last time in my life, a well-dressed chauffeur holding up a sign with my name on it in bold letters. I like fancy perks.

We didn't talk much, which was fine. I dislike forced conversation with people who cut hair or drive you somewhere or whatnot. I was his last job of the night, so I just nestled into the leathery smell of the towncar and let him work his transportational magic, weaving me down highways named after dolphins and shells, through the surprisingly quiet downtown streets and, at last, over a small bridge onto Brickell Key, where we passed the Courvoisier -- there was a building named that -- on the way to my destination, the Mandarin Oriental Miami.

Doors were opened, bags were carried, I lifted nary a finger but to hand over a credit card for my room account. By the time I reached the room, which was lovely, it was relatively late in the evening. So I walked around naked on my balcony for a bit before raiding the minibar.

The next morning I walked to South Beach, originally intending only to get the lay of the land down. But the virbant blue-green waters were irresistable, so I picked up some sunscreen and slathered it on as I walked to a nice spot of beach where I tossed off my shoes, wrapped my wallet in a plastic bag that came with the sunscreen, stuffed it into my pocket, and walked out into the crystal waters.

"I am a genius," I thought to myself, until a wave came along and I realized my wallet was no longer in my pocket.

Lucky for me, I was not far from the designated gay section of South Beach, and once I'd told one person I needed help finding a lost wallet, the waters were soon filled with tenacious twinks and determined daddies. I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers. No results, though, and just as I was about to give up, head back to the hotel, and call to cancel my cards, a gorgeous girl called to me from the shore. "Is this it?"

It was.

And so I had regained my wallet, dry and safe and warm, from the untold clutches of the warm Atlantic. "Just leave it on the beach," she instructed me, "no one steals anything here." All right then.

Having gotten as much excitement as I could handle out of that incident, I spent the rest of my time determined to do nothing but truly relax. Lucky for me, a friend in Los Angeles who was aware of my trip had attempted to have champagne sent to my room upon my arrival. The hotel had bungled the request, and when I chatted with him later that day, he had the hotel rectify the problem by sending up the amenity that evening. And so I eased back into true relaxation with a sparkling rose and chocolate covered strawberries, nude but for the hotel robe on my balcony, taking in the quiet lap of Brickell Bay against my little man-made island.

I dined at the hotel restaurant -- Azul -- a few times, enjoying spectacular foie gras, a trio of Colorado lamb preparations, sticky rice creme brulee, exceptional cheese plates, and a number of decent-to-phenomenal whites and sparklings. I accidentally walked through the filming of a movie, and signed waivers so that they could use the footage. And, tossing back margaritas and a Cuban sandwich on Miami beach, was photographed by a couple of girls who seduced me into it by reaching over the rails that separated the restaurant from the sidewalk to scratch the back of my head.

I took in the Cincinnatti Reds at the Florida Marlins. I love baseball more than most people, but I confess, by the thirteenth inning of anemic offensive displays put forth by two teams about which I care minimally, I was "all set."

It was a good trip. Arriving early, once again, at the airport for my return flight, I decided to gamble on airport sushi, which honestly wasn't so bad. I was hit on by some girls from Virginia who'd spent their week in the Keys, and then got drunk before my flight while being chatted up by a British national who claimed to have a house in Turkey and a job photographing whales aboard an oil ship in the Caribbean. It was a mistake for him to explain the details of his life so proudly; I returned fire with a more humble spin to my settings, and suddenly, the drinks were on him.

I came home with a good tan and a clear head -- save for the lingering effects of the booze -- feeling healthy and sly. The Miami Hat had been broken in, and yay, for it was good.

And In Some Cases, Money

It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words.

I usually dismiss that valuation, mostly because I've been copied on too many "amazing photos from this year" chain e-mails that people who don't have interesting lives are compelled include me on when they forward it to the people they naively assume won't think less of them for it and hit delete.

But, rather than attempt to summarize -- or, more accurately, confess -- the delight of (re)uniting with long-lost family members to discover that you actually like these strangers who've got your blood, I think I'll let a choice photograph do the talking.



And here we are. I'm not only in this photo, I'm also the photographer. How I fit seven happy people into the same frame without ruining the shot or tearing my MCL, I'm still unsure.

It's difficult to believe, looking at it, that most of us just met for the first time the day this was taken.

But there you have it: family.

Of Asses

Because I actually enjoy my job, I practically never communicate anything about it here. The only information that makes for a good story is the same kind of information that gets a person fired. I'm not entirely unschooled in such ways.

But I will say this.

This afternoon, a coworker of mine was complaining, at extreme length, about several things. Personal life, other coworkers, boss, etc.

The words entered my ear where they were immediately annihilated, as enemies in "Centipede" on easy against an expert player. As the constant stream of bitching vaporized en route to my motherboard, the core remained intact and operating at peak efficiency.

I thought to myself "I have a great ass."

It is that very mental process that allows me to be as good at my job as I am.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmanida: Epicurian Epilogue

After a week of repeated indulgence, I have been battling strep throat for the last couple of days. I'm starting to kick it, I think. I'm just glad it happened this week, and not last.

The search for Excelsior's replacement produced what I admit was the anticipated result: slight weight gain and no true substitute. The ultimate restaurant experience is as difficult to describe as I imagine it is to create. There are still a couple of contenders I've yet to sample here in Boston, but I'm rather content to resign that each establishment's offering is unique, gently but undeniably crafted by the infinite variables of server, wine selection, and ordering... things over which a restaurant, as an entity, has only so much control.

For the establishment's part, there is much to tend to. It is in the little things, such as the lovely arrangement of spare toilet paper in the bathroom at Oishii, and the big things, such as appropriately listing a side as arancini and not simply wild mushroom risotto. It's putting lobster in the lobster bisque, and maintaining a staff engaging enough and sincere enough that they can be trusted for recommendations geared towards a given customer's tastes, not the inflation of the tab or the dispense of a dish for which the kitchen is overstocked.

All of it can be built, though, around good food and good drinks. And though the experience specific to Excelsior may have ended with its closing, I may yet have found a new favorite, long may it reign.

Without further adieu, the dust has now settled, and it's time to dole out the gold stars and dunce caps.

The biggest disappointment was easily The Palm. As I said in the more at-length recap, I know there's a good meal to be had there. Or at least, there was once upon a time. Having been on their mailing list for quite some time, I can't ever recall receiving so many "special offers" in such a small span of time. If my recent experience there was in any way representative of the typical visit these days, it leaves little to the imagination with regards to what's motivating all these discounts cluttering up my e-mail.

Oishii is easily my new standard for sushi. Though a bit more a hike than incredibly convenient local favorite Privus Lounge, Oishii will likely see more of me with the warmer weather. Very good sushi, nice cocktails -- provided they survive the stairs -- and all at about the value one would deem relatively accurate for what's offered.

Tremont647 and Le Petit Robert will also see me returning. Both have menus I'm anxious to thoroughly explore, and whether it's the tangy French at the Bistro or the personable (here: gay) staff at 647, the atmospheres are comfortable and inviting for a three course meal or perhaps just a lazy Saturday's luncheon.

The Top of the Hub... I'm not sure why I didn't go often before. I must return with someone who hasn't got any food hangups, though; I want to do their tasting menu at some point. Considering their prices -- outside of the egregiously inflated costs to be found in their wine list -- are hardly anything beyond what you'd find for the same type of fare about fifty-two floors down, it really is worth the popping of the ears every now and then.

The big winner, though, and hereafter "favorite restaurant," is Gaslight. I've yet to do anything but enjoy myself there, and though I confess a slight bias in strong favor of traditional French cuisine done right, even the intangibles are in place here.

In order to keep myself from the unpleasant fate of Violet Beauregard, I shan't be eating out nearly as often for a good while -- perhaps until summer's installment of Restaurant Week in Boston -- especially as I'm planning to visit Miami in just under a month now.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part VII

The final stop on my Restaurant Week adventure was quite the exclamation point. I had landed 8:30 dinner reservations on a Friday at Top of the Hub.

When I first came to Boston, I'd heard about this place. All mention of it was put forth either with great reverence -- it was occasionally posited as the best restaurant in Boston -- or that damning definitive descriptive, "overrated." It now occurs to me that none of those people knew anything about food, or even anything about anything at all. It took me three years to actually visit it for the first time, taken there by a friend for my twenty-first birthday for a pair of martinis and a split dessert.

I didn't really get that far with assessing the place at the time; the view was lovely, but how much of a read can you get on any place's cuisine when you're fighting for bites of a shared dessert with a girl who can't stop lamenting the psychiatric shortcomings of her corporate executive boyfriend no one's ever seen?

Needless to say, I needed another trip to make a formed opinion, and last Friday was the night to do it.

A caveat reared its ugly head on Friday morning, as my intended company for the evening scratched himself from the lineup, citing a head cold of the fast and furious variety. In a bizarre twist of fate, I had an incredibly difficult time filling the spot; everyone had plans, or was also sick, or could neither afford it nor bring themselves to let me treat them. It was just baffling; dinner with me is so nice!

Shortly before I had to leave work, my friend Chris agreed to go.

Had he not, I had pretty much resolved that I would put forth a solo effort, get drunk, eat for two, and make a scene.

But, alas, I had company, so it was business as usual. My ears must've popped at least three times during the elevator ride up to the fifty-second floor; I really must get more accustomed to changes in elevation. When we arrived, though fairly early, our table was almost ready.

Weeks ago, when I made the reservations in the first place, I'd actually filled out the "special requests" input box with a bid for window seating along the northeast-facing side of the building. I figure everyone asks for a window seat, and anyone smart enough to factor in the logistics of what faces what would request the northeast side, but I also figured that there is no harm in asking for what you want nonetheless; the worst anyone can say is a simple "no."

And so it was that our table for two was in the exact center of the northeast-facing side of the building, immediately pressed against the windows, and there was a view, and yay, for this was good:



Even if the food was terrible, the sights were enough to bring a tear to the eye of someone with even the slightest Yurtle the Turtle complex.

I ordered the tuna tartare to start, which came blended with avocado and paired with small portions of pickled ginger and seaweed, plus a sticky, sweet teriyaki-ish soy sauce and some spicy mayo for smothering. It was a good way to start things off, but there's little to be said for the preparation, because the only skill in preparing raw fish is in its portioning, pairing and arrangement. Ain't nobody cook nothin' yet.

The foie gras that followed -- I'm a sucker for ordering foie gras... it's like creme brulee in that it's a fantastic litmus test for a kitchen's skills -- came with warm pineapple and some sort of granola-like brick. I forget what the menu said, and don't much care. I nearly lost my fork prying into the damn thing and though it wins obligatory points for originality, there's something to be said for not fixing what isn't broken. I would've traded in my pineapple and grainy brittle for just one nicely toasted triangle of brioche, especially considering how runny the foie gras was. Kudos to Le Petit Robert; they do it better.

By the time the main course was set to arrive, I was done trifling with cocktails and had summoned a bottle of Veuve from what wasn't exactly a comprehensive champagne selection in comparison with my expectations. The server opened the bottle flawlessly, but upon tilting it to pour, let well more than a taste's worth out onto the table, and, after having presented to Chris for approval rather than me -- it is my understanding that traditional wine panache calls for presentation to the individual who'd ordered the wine -- he poured him the taste as well.

All I will say is that it is difficult to mistake one of us for the other.

For my entree I had decided to go for the jugular and order the "market price" two-pound lobster. And so continued my difficulty with lobster; I thought that by ordering the menu item entitled "Native 2 lb. Lobster," described as having a crabmeat stuffing, that I would finally get a solid dose of the elusive -- even when named -- crustacean. When they brought my lobster to me, however, I could not help but notice that he was missing his fucking claws. What do I have to do to get a decent portion of lobster in goddamn fucking Boston? Who do I have to blow? This is the motherfucking center of New England, and I can't get the claws on my lobster fifty-two stories up in the heart of town?

Even more annoying: the lobster that I did get was absolutely delicious, including the crabmeat stuffing which replaced the bluish-green visceral tissue of the lobster -- considered by some to be a delicacy -- which I was happy to go without. The meal was, admittedly, so good that it was difficult to be disappointed about a clawless lobster, even though, across the table, Chris was doing mighty justice to his lobster macaroni and cheese which contained, suspiciously, claw meat.

For dessert, the creme brulee. It was completely up to par with expectations; no complaints whatsoever there. Consistently flame-licked on top so nothing was too burned or left untouched, with the custard beneath remaining smooth and creamy without even a hint of graininess. Very good.

Overall, the Top of the Hub does things pretty well, though they miss the little touches here and there that would otherwise put them over the top in offering an experience of unquestionable class an opulence. The servers should probably double-check to make sure their guests are done with a dish before removing it from the table, especially with the appetizers in their limited portions, and not spilling any bit of a bottle of champagne for which the restaurant rate is more than 125% of the market price would probably be advisable. Nonetheless, with so much else going for it, the fact I could order lobster by itself, receive it without the claws and still come away feeling summarily satisfied speaks volumes of the complete experience.

Would do again, at some point.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part V

Last night was the beginning of the home stretch, the final three days of Restaurant Week in which I had planned to visit three strong favorites in the scramble for my new culinary cocaine.

Wednesday found me at Gaslight, Brasserie du Coin with Sarah. Gaslight is not terribly expensive, nor terribly adventurous, but the former is never a problem and the latter is actually a positive in this case, as Gaslight strives to put forth a comprehensive menu of dishes traditional to and iconic of French cuisine. Escargot, crepes, the works.

Softly lit with globe lighting and muted table lamps, the restaurant walls are lined with clouded, speckled mirrors and two rows of sparkling water bottles up near the high ceiling. The booths and tables are all dark wood, done up with a deep burgundy leather and bronze studs, and the atmosphere is full but not crowded, with ambiance background noise of light dinner conversation and the less voluminous works of Edith Piaf (for whom one of their cocktails is named).

Gaslight, like most of the other places I've visited so far, was also offering its regular menu, and how fortunate, as I was so hoping to re-sample their onion soup gratinee, a gruyere-topped wonder with soaked baguette and truffled short rib.

But we started with drinks; I had to go with the Fleur De Lis. Normally I would be opposed to a gin-based drink, but this had violet liqueur and a champagne floater, so, what the Hell. And it really wasn't bad at all, in fact I liked it. It was light and refreshing, and completely lacking of the usual "pine tree splinters in the throat" flavor of gin to which I will never be quite accustomed.

My onion soup came along just as I remembered it, and was consistent with my assessment as the best of its kind in town. From the pre-fixe menu, I was tempted by the opportunity to order lobster bisque with the likelihood that Gaslight would show up The Palm, but how often does one get the opportunity to enjoy braised veal cheeks on duck fat toasted brioche? The word "tender" would not even begin to accurately describe the dish; I was infinitely grateful that the restaurant provides an abundance of bread in hot baguette form with which to soak up the juices of this delicately portioned, savorable dish.

Having polished off my Fleur De Lis, I moved on to the Can Can, which was ginger liqueur and champagne with candied ginger at the bottom. I would be finishing my third Can Can by the end of the night.

For the entree, though lured by the navarin of lamb with turnip puree and pearl onions, not to mention the scallops in tagliatelle with scallions and strips of ham, I rarely turn down cassoulet. And I was incredibly happy with my choice. The duck confit and garlic sausage were perfectly portioned over the white beans, all sprinkled with a bacon crumble. Heart disease, surely, was the secret ingredient, but after the cheesy onion soup and the braised veal cheeks, there was no stopping this bus.

Finally, for dessert, I ordered what was one of the most anticipated dishes of the many pre-fixed menus I perused when selecting my reservations. Champagne sorbet with black currant syrup and parisienne macarons. The portion was generous, perhaps exceedingly so, as I was quite full just midway through, but it was fantastic. The sorbet was airy and retained just a hint of fizz, while the syrup added a sweet tartness here and there. The cookie, meanwhile, was in a category of its own, easily the finest Parisian-style macaron I've been able to get my hands on here in the U. S., as of yet unable to sample the source.

Gaslight may not have been quite so posh as Clink or as diverse in menu as Tremont 647, but stands alone in overall satisfaction thus far. Would do again and again.

The Great Pumpkin

Two years ago, I got a pumpkin for Halloween. I picked it from a patch in Vermont somewhere, roadtripping through northern New England with Kelly. When I purchased it, I asked the girl working the register if its dark green complexion would have any bearing on its livelihood as a pumpkin. I asked because the only other green pumpkin I recall encountering in the past was one my sister had selected when we were both very small, and that pumpkin effectively turned to slime shortly before Halloween.

"No," she said, "it'll be fine."

She was a lying witch.

I took my pumpkin home, sat it upon a coffee table, and lovingly named it Horatio, with plans to carve a marvelous face for him 'pon the weekend before All Hallow's Eve. But Horatio did not survive a full week, and, like his ancestor, turned to slime with record speed. I was devastated.

This past September -- late in September, I recall -- I saw that pumpkins had arrived at the supermarket that's just around the corner from where I live. I selected, securely, an orange pumpkin, of what seemed to be perfect proportions and hardy constitution.

The girl at the checkout gave me a look as she passed my new pumpkin to be bagged.

"Isn't it a little early to be buying a pumpkin?"

"You're selling them now."

And that was that.

I named him Horatio II, and he sat in many places in the kitchen and living room. I did not carve him by Halloween, and decided to leave him intact for Thanksgiving, provided he did not rot. And Horatio II didn't rot. In fact, he turned out to be the very Methuselah of pumpkindom.

December arrived, and there sat Horatio II, emitting no odor, showing no signs of mold, his rind as tough and fresh as ever. January snows piled up in our courtyard, and Horatio II looked on in complete approval. Feburary came and though I finally took my Christmas tree down, I could not bring myself to part with Horatio II. He showed no signs of decline, and it was fun to tell Sarah that he was filled, secretly, with millions of evil beetles. Beetles who would one day be free, and come for her.

And when Horatio II made it to March, I figured he might well last until next Halloween. But on his weekly checkup this past week, mold was discovered, and it had spread by Friday. For all his endurance, the end came quickly. This morning, in cleaning up the apartment to prepare for tonight's car bombs (in honor of St. Patrick's Day), I took Horatio II out to the shed and shot him.

Well, I bagged him and threw him in the dumpster. But it doesn't mean I loved him any less.

He shall forevermore be remembered as Horatio II: The Great Pumpkin, or Horatio the Great for short. Tonight, I will drink to, among many other things, his memory.

The Night You Can't Remember

If life was a soap opera, I would be the character constantly stricken with an inconveniently selective case of amnesia. I can remember, for instance, every line from "Kill Bill Vol. 2," but I cannot, on the other hand, remember what the Hell my plans are supposed to be for Saturday.

Help me, second installment of the Deven Green parody videos of Brenda Dickson!



I believe it was Nietzsche who once cautioned against staring into a vajeene for too long...