July 2000

In The Land of Universities and Tourists

Boston is an OK town, but I don’t usually have time or money to do the things I might want to do. Things are expensive and I am not a wealthy s-u-v driving type. I commute on the T and rub bodies with the rest of the poor folk who don’t have their own parking spaces at the sky-scraping international companies they work for. There are some crazy types who don’t own cars or who choose to commute by public transportation because it is the right thing to do, but I don’t know any and I try to avoid them. Luckily, there are some free and relatively inexpensive things to do in this town, especially now that summer is in full swing.

A great way to enjoy these things is alone, since one’s whims are never questioned unless you yourself question your decision. But even this is alright since you can probably keep those arguments in your head- that is, unless you just have to say them out loud. Having this kind of argument doesn’t seem to bother those dirty bastards who do it, and perhaps it doesn’t bother you either. At times I’m fine with it as long as I’m deep enough in thought not to notice or care about looks from other people. Perhaps you’ll say, "It’s OK to talk to yourself as long as you don’t answer," but this is incorrect. It is only not acceptable to talk to, and answer, yourself aloud if you don’t care about the opinions of others. People who go by this no-answering-one's-self rule have never struggled with a dilemma like choosing between Cherry Garcia and Bovinity Divinity.

Here in Boston there are many free concerts you can go to by yourself or with others. I saw a John Scofield weird-jazz concert at Copley Square. It was fine for the most part, but had one particularly amateur moment when the rhythm guitar player doubled the lead by whistling on the tune "Jeep on 35." Whistling is fine if it is done well but this guy didn’t quite hit the rhythm or the tone of the melody. Someone should have spoken up to question the decision and a musician of Scofield’s stature should have known better. I was embarrassed for them, especially because I could have done a better job whistling. Scofield is a strange one, prone to self-indulgent playing, and often his tunes are a bit boring and serve only as vehicles to his all too familiar distorted guitar-lick solos. Come out from behind your bag of tricks, John! There, I said it, and I feel better for having done so. Maybe I’m jealous, but I want to hear something new from him. But now a bunch of rabid, Guitar Magazine-reading guitar nerds are going to come and whip me with their used guitar strings, but it will be worth it. However, everyone should own his it’s-too-funky-in-here A Go Go CD, released two years ago, with the mad-scientist keyboard stylings of John Medeski of the trio Medeski Martin and Wood.
I saw this show outside on a lovely sunny day, and the only thing I lacked was an understanding person to comment to, but now I have you. I got some sun and no one questioned me, so I got plenty of thinking and listening in.

I heard a little bit of some blues and a girl folk singer. I left when the folkie thought it would be a good idea to sing a verse of "Sister Christian." I ran. There is no place in the jukebox in my head for that kind of thing and I still resent her for doing it.

There are other concerts, and one has only to check listings in the papers.

I also spend time watching and thinking at the edge of the water. The "Tall Ships" were in town and I saw them "parade" past Christopher Columbus park at the harbor. This was a fine way to spend a Tuesday morning before work, and I was able to put a significant dent in a book I was reading. This park is a good one, because it has benches as well as a shaded and grassy section on which to spread out a picnic lunch if one is inclined. I only had a peanut butter and banana sandwich, but it was mighty tasty.

I also saw Marcel Marceau, but this I paid for. "Paid?" You ask. Yes, paid. He is the master of the art form of pantomime and he was in town. I put off fixing my muffler, something I’ve been doing since March, and spent the muffler money on a ticket for one. Date? Heck no! I don’t need to- and can’t- be spending money like that. And, besides, who do I know around here that would like that artsy-fartsy stuff. He did the seven deadly sins and a bunch of "Bip" sketches-his everyman character, including the wonderfully subtle and French "Bip Remembers." This one opens with Bip dancing to modern music with strobing lights- all of the sketches are accompanied by, or punctuated with, music. Then Bip heads home, unlocks his door, and enters a room with a desk. He reads an old letter and begins a series of flashback memories of armed service- the pomp, Hitler and war, where he kills and witnesses an execution- a conversation, a waltz and the embrace of a lover. The strong memories of war repeat in short spurts until we again find him sitting in front of his desk. He leaves his home and goes out again with the memories coming back occasionally until they fade completely. He dances the rest of the night away, but ends the sketch with a pose that I think is intended to summarize the character. All this and no words.

This sort of thing is easy to scoff at, but it is powerful and I couldn’t have talked to anyone if I had wanted to. It is the type of experience that must be absorbed and re-experienced in the mind before one can possibly discuss it. The woman I sat next to was another solo viewer and, I think, an intellectual, because she used the word "dialectic" when we talked before the show.
The Theater I saw the show in was off Harvard square. Harvard square is, as far as I can tell, where the real happenin’ things happen. The warm-night sounds are filled with performers- at least five different acts at once when I was up there, but mostly covers. It is good to see more young people than you can yell at to get out of your yard, and it is refreshing not to see so many people with maps and cameras. They all go back to their hotel rooms at night. My Uncle from the DC area calls them tourons- some sort of robot, I think.

Interesting things happen when one isn’t encumbered by a companion. For example, I explored The Fenway the other day and discovered many sunbathing beauties and an art installation called "At the Bottom of the Lake" by a Brit. artist, Cornelia Parker. It was a plaque a couple feet out in the water that marked the location a meteor fell earlier this year. This was a walk for no purpose- not for exercise, not to get somewhere. Then there is sitting outside, watching people go by, and wondering what they do and where they are going. This is a perfectly good thing to do when I am by myself. But this installation is a good one. It accomplishes that rare spark of imagination and wonder in me. I am a child when I think about that piece of moon submerged and invisible. Who cares? Only me. That's why I don't take anyone along.

I pointed it out to some woman who was walking her dog. I don't think she appreciated it but maybe she will later, and it's interesting to try.

I would not have discovered these things had I been with another person. No one I know walks. Sit, or drive and sit, that’s all you jerks do.

I mean, "jerk" in a nice way.

Another time I was outside reading at a playground where the winos go a night, and a couple of kids were hitting balls. One came toward me and I threw it back to them and was invited to play. They had a glove and we played a bit of catch. They were young so I didn’t have to worry about my precious fingers being flattened by a searing fastball. Had I been with other people, whatever I might have been doing would have been too important to interrupt for a stray baseball. Not to mention how put out my companion would be waiting while I played some baseball.

I cannot bad-mouth the company of a suitable person, and company is often a fine thing. It's like eating a couple of McDonald's hamburgers- they fill an empty stomach, but the quality of the filling up does matter. I can only take so much of that kind of company and I don't eat McDonald's. Good company is a better meal, but the best meal is usually eaten with a good friend. And I am one of my best friends.

Maybe you find this frightening and alarming. Maybe you should. One can come uncomfortably close to becoming that eccentric recluse who forgets how to deal normally with other people. As long as I can behave when I have to, I will keep this nonsense up.