An Ode To Porter Square Shopping Center

Where the hell on Earth are we, you ask
as you reach for liquid courage in your pocket flask.
Is it a war-torn battle field?
Shall I ready my weapon and shield?
My dear little friend, fear you not
T'is just the Porter Square parking lot


The parking spaces here are impossibly tight
causing new car drivers justifiable fright
"I won't be here very long" you say
You leave your new car and you walk away
Not five seconds after you depart
Your car WILL be smashed by an errant shopping cart

Let's head to Dunks for coffee and a snack
Be sure to order extra cream if you really want black.

Next stop's Q'doba for a burrito with rice
and pinch yourself, because the employees are actually nice
Hold on, you think, wait a sec.
"This is Cambridge," after all. "What the heck?"
Aren't they supposed to treat me like chopped liver?
Reduce my humanity to a mere sliver?
They'd be rude, I'm sure, if they weren't afraid
Of a sudden INS raid.
Give a Cambridge woman hot salsa instead of mild
and she's likely to go hog wild
She'll call the INS on the double
and make sure your burrito-making ass is in trouble
Out of the country you'll be sent
to avenge the Cambridge woman the money she spent


Did you drop some salsa on your boots?
Well, head right next door to clean 'em at Zoots.
Do you have a dress to be altered as well?
They've got a seamstress named Olga, and she's just swell.
Olga comes to us from with Russia with love
But don't expect her to handle you with a kid glove
You'll advise her of your couture hopes
as she chain smokes and watches her Russian soaps
But Olga will come through, and this I swear
She'll turn out garments you're proud to wear

I'm already here so what the hell
I might as well brave Cambridge Naturals as well
I need an herbal remedy for an itch on my ass
as well as a tube of lipstick made of grass
I try to find deodorant for my pits
but eventually I call my search quits
The do-gooder at the counter informs me
that I should set my natural odor free
Apparently he practices what he rants
'cuz it smells as if he's shat his pants
I have to get out of here, I think
I can barely stomach this stink
If being "natural" gives rise to this toxic stench
Then in chemical perfumes I shall myself drench

I don't know about you
but I definitely need a drink or two
I make my way to Liquor World in a hurry
They've got plenty of booze, so don't you worry
Beer, booze, wine....they've got it all
This is seriously the best store in the mall
But of course, nothing's that easy
My shopping experience here isn't quite so breezy
Some asshole wearing a BERET
is blocking the aisle leading to the cabernet
It's fine if he wants to be a caricature of himself
but does he have to block the beer shelf?
Eventually I get in line behind this hack
And I'm effectively bludgeoned by his overstuffed backpack
You really wonder why I drink?
Just look at this shit; don't overthink.

Whatever, I'm off to Porter Square books
Where I'm sure to engender some condescending looks
from moms nursing their teenagers in the book stacks
or people at the coffee bar eating overpriced wheat germ based snacks.

I'm outta here, I'm going to Tags
Where they actually give you carbon-footprint magnifying plastic bags
I can't quite say what it is for sure
But Tags always leaves me wanting to come back for more
Maybe it's the lack of pretense
or the items to be had at little expense
You don't have to bathe in patchouli or grow a stupid goatee
You can just come in and have the ancient guy in the basement copy your key

Let's head to Shaw's, shall we?
Not sure what to say here, you see.
Yeah, they have the keepin' it real stuff
Ramen noodles and marshmellow fluff
But Shaw's has gone "Cambridgey" too
Come on in for Quinoa and Tofu
Just when you think the yuppies have managed to dominate
Go over to the customer service booth to see Shaw's true fate
The lady with one tooth in her entire head
is selling "scratchies" to a guy who looks like he's already dead
He won't let his iron lung get in the way
of his daily lottery daily game play
A Canterbridgian approaches the counter to gripe
about her package of marinated tofu tripe
Toothless Wonder and iron lung just stare her down
and strip her of her Cambridge "I'm entitled" crown.
Then I chuckle and find a bit of peace
because I know Toothless Wonder's spirit will never cease

And then of course, that leaves the gym
Healthworks Fitness Centers for her, not him
I am not sure I can even describe with the written word
All of the bizarreness I've seen and heard
Suffice it to say here an now
Well...ah....in a brief word....WOW
Why wear clothes
when everybody knows
We all want to see you whip off your full kit
and then stand around chatting, revealing arse, gut, and tit
Modesty is totally overrated
Remain fully clothed and you'll be berated

There's so much more; I could say more
But really, folks, what the hell for?

A Real (Market) Basket Case

What do the following songs all have in common:

"Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns n' Roses

"Circus" by Brit Spears

"Animal" by Def Leppard

"Let's Go Crazy" by Prince

Give up? Well, let me tell ya.

Like all artists, Axl, Brit, Prince, and our good friend Joe, are forever in search of that elusive muse to inspire their next top-selling hit song. In this case, all of these seemingly unrelated songs have one commonality. You see, they were all written in reference to Somerville Ave's own Demoula's Market Basket supermarket.




Yes, that's right. All of these songs were inspired by the daily shit show that unfurls in the aisles, the produce section, the deli counter, and the cash registeres of Market Basket.

Sure, the prices are lower, and the international groceries are fabulous (and can be had at a fraction of the price of these pretentious swanky, "international groceries" like Cardullo's in Harvard Square), but you WILL risk life and limb if you venture beyond the front doors and into its hallowed (and sawdust covered) halls.

Nobody escapes Market Basket without a few bumps, bruises, and minor skin lacerations. Make no mistakes, these injuries are sustained on a GOOD day at Market Basket.

You see, shopping at Market Basket brings out the basest, most primal survial instincts of the customers. You WILL use that shopping cart as a weapon to get at that last mango. You WILL jeopardize the life of an infant in a nearby shopping cart if if means getting that last packet of wholesale family sized chicken gizzards, goddamn it!

If another shopper gets his arm, leg, hand, or foot in your way...well, he's just ASKING you to go ahead and perform amputation surgery with the aid of your very unsterile shopping basket, jar of pimentos, and bag of spicy pork rinds as your surgical tools.

Who the hell needs two feet anyway?

Actually, the one-legged shoppers are at a distinct advantage at Market Basket. They get to use the shopping CARS with the baskets attached to the front. There's no stopping them when they see those fermented fish heads. If peg-leg wants to get at that last packet of goat entrails in the packaged meat section, he'll run your ass down without so much as a second thought. You'll be peeling yourself up off the floor like a flattened pancake cartoon character. (Think Bugs Bunny getting crushed by a steam roller and then peeling his now one-dimensional body off the middle of the road).

I've found myself in Bug's position a few times, but hey, you gotta give Peg-Leg a wink for pluck!

Anyway, today was like a greatest hits at Market Basket. I hadn't been there in a while, so I was delighted with my exceptional timing in getting there when all of the typical Market Basket shenanigans were going down. Let me share them with you here:

The produce section was particularly crowded. It must be tropical fruit harvesting time in Latin America and Asia because the guavas, mangos, coconuts, and pineapples filled the fruit bins to capacity. It was pretty packed in there. I guess I'm not the only one who likes a good mango.




Questionable parts of several non-traditional (for American consumers, anyway), were on full display in the packaged meat section. Llamas, goats, muskrats, hedgehogs, emus.....each of those animals had some shady body part, organ, appendage, or antler on sale for your dining pleasure. I felt so boring and American when I reached into the refrigerator case for my chicken breast tenderloins. I could feel the disapproving stares of my Salvadorian, Mongolian, German, and Russian shoppers boring in on me as I chose this most vanilla of protein options. They seemed to be willing me to try the Sea Lion fillets. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Two shoppers were engaged in a heated, passionate brawl over their place in line. One of them was 99th and one of them was 100th. It was hard to say who got there first. The lines wrap all the way to the back of the store, and so I think #99 thought #100 was in the deli line, but #100 was sure she had clearly staked her claim in the 99 position by placing her newborn baby there while she ordered her pig skin at the deli counter.

All of the interesting groceries were labeled in 19 languages, none of which were English, and only about a third of which actually used the Roman alphabet.

The lines were moving slow as molasses because each customer was paying with his own nation's currency. Some people were even trying to pay with home rememdies they'd concocted in thier bathroom sinks. I'm pretty sure the cashier took the pesos, rubles, euros, and witch hazel balm.

Live animals were running around the store. No, they had not escaped from the meat department, but rather were the family pets of the other shoppers. Chickens? Turkeys? Antelope? Sure, come one come all to Market Basket!

Some rug rat dropped and smashed a foul smelling syrup, prompting the "Clean up on Aisle 3" distress call over the PA.

As you can see, all the MB Delights were in store for me today! It was great.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention that it took me longer to get the hell out of the front door than it did to do my whole shopping order. For some reason, a shopping foray into MB seems to put people into somes slow-moving zombie mode. I was stuck behind Herman Munster, Lurch, and Cousin It, none of whom could pick up the pace!

When I got out of there, I put my face to the sun and wept tears of relief at my newfound freedom. It was kinda like the last scene in that "Midnight Express" movie. You know the one...where the guy escapes from a horrendous Turkish prison after about 18 years of incarceration. He runs the hell out of there, and the camera freezes on him as he leaps into the air, a newly free man savoring his liberty.

OK, so my bags were heavy and I had a couple of glass bottles in there, so I didn't leap, but you get my point.

Bar Stool Olympic Judges

I'm not really a big winter olympics person. Actually, that's an understatement. I don't give one miserable rat's ass about the winter olympics. Yeah, that about captures my attitude toward what is admittedly one of the largest and most significant sporting events to come to the world stage.

I mean, come on. I can't stand winter, so why would I have any time for the winter olympics? I know everybody celebrates the will, determination, and discipline of the athletes. I just mock their idiotic willingness to stand around outside in sub-zero temperatures and hurl themselves, feet fully tethered to a glofiried skateboard, at breakneck speed off of structures called "half pipes". But hey, whatever floats their boat, right?

Now the summer olympics...I can get with that. Running and throwing heavy stuff in track and field events isn't necessarily my cup of tea, but at least the athletes can work on their tans while they're at it. And the spectators run very little risk of freezing to death. Have you seen the chumps in the stands at the winter olympics? All the overpriced concession stand hot chocolate ain't gonna warm those bitches up.

One thing I will say in favor of the athletes at both the winter and summer olympics is that they are so well prepared that they actually make their respective sports look easy.

I sit there in my living room watching the olympics, washing my chips and salsa down with a Bud Light thinking, "Shoot...Stephen and I could dominate that pairs figure skating yoke!" I seriously think that if only Stephen had a fully body spandex leotard and I had a feathered tutu, we'd be good to go. Mercifully, for the viewing public, we are not in possession of those articles of clothing, so you're safe for now.

I'm wiping my glass coffee table down with Windex and paper towels thinking, "Is THAT all there is to the mogul run?"

I watch a few ski long jumps and think, "I know where the German guy went wrong. It's all in the hand positioning. If I held my hands flat and palms facing downward like that Japanese guy, I'd win the gold." (Of course, I would also have to lose 140 lbs and shrink 8 inches to obtain the physique of the very aerodynamic Japanese man who won the gold, but that's just a minor detail)

Effortless. That's how the athletes make it look.

But of course I realize that these people train like 45 hours a day and that they live, eat, sleep, breath, and dream about their sports. They do nothign else. They are machines. I know that if I took to the ski jump mountain, I'd better have a last will and testament ready to go before they even sounded the "GO!" signal.

Moguls? Really? How do those people still have knees? How are they not hobbled? And that snowboard crap? How do they get that height, find their landing, and NOT bash their heads open off the ledge of the half pipe?

I guess the bottom line is that I realize that the appearance of effortlessness is just that...a mere appearance. These people are masters of their sport and they are at the Olympics for a reason.

Yesterday, Stephen and I went for lunch at a local pub. We had a beer while we watched a recap of the Olympic events that was being broadcast on the enormous TV.

We were more enteratined, I think, by the drunk next to us who saw fit to critique the performance handed in by each and every athlete. Nobody lived up to his stringent standards.

Lindsay Vonn (or whatever her name is) couldn't fool him! Everybody was trying to say that she skiied like a champ on her broken leg. And even though she managed to snag the gold, our neighbor at the bar saw right through her cherade. She didn't get enough lower body rotation, and her time was way off. She also slammed her poles into too many of the barriers, and her mid-course jumps really left a lot to be desired. She skiied like "an amateur" according to Tipsy McStagger.

After he offered this stinging critique, he took advantage of the television commercial to make his way to the bathroom. His own dismount from his bar stool was less than graceful. He nearly stumbled over the nacho-toting waitress and barely managed to break "slow shuffle" speed.

When he came back, he was quick to point out the flaws in Apolo Ohno's technique on the short course speed skating event. He waited too long to launch his attack on the skaters in the lead and should be embarrassed by his bronze finish. Tipsy McStagger then realized that his own attack on the beer taps was lacking in the speed department. He went to take a sip of his beer and was faced with an empty glass. In utter disgust, he beckoned the bartender over and proceeded to abraid him for not filling his glass in a timely manner. The bartender was shaken, but at least the heat was off of Apolo Ohno. Once the beer was filled, Ohno was back under fire. How could they even let this "loser" onto the team, Tipsy mused. I attempted to point out that Ohno is now the sigle most decorated American winter olympian. My argument held no water, however, as Tipsy declared it, "Hogwash!" I guess he showed me.

There was a break in the programming and Stephen and I took off. They were supposed to have hilights from the couples figure skating when the show resumed. I'm kind of sorry I didn't hear what Tipsy had to offer in the way of commentary.

Who needs Marv Albert, Peggy Flemming and Scott Hamilton ringside when Tipsy McStagger could do a much more entertaining commentary? But seriously, thank god Tipsyy isn't a judge. Nobody would win any medals at all. They'd never pass his stringent standards!

Bad Blood

I've learned something important during this school vacation week.

I really have to be careful what I wish for.

I'm constantly bellyaching about how, as a teacher, I have very little flexibility in my schedule. Now, before you start it about how much time off I get, please hear me out. I DO get lots of time off. I realize that most working people would happily sell their first born's soul to the devil for my work calendar. However, what I'm talking about is flexibility, not time off. Most of my friends can say, "I don't feel great. I'll go in a little later today," or, "I have to make a doctor's appointment. I'll take a longer lunch and then make up the time at the end of the day." You know, that kind of thing. I can't do that kind of stuff. If I have a 15 minute appointment, I have to take an entire day off, leave substitute lesson plans, and then worry about my students mauling the poor sub to death.

The American Red Cross called me late last week and asked me to donate blood this week. I was all delighted to set up a late morning appointment. Normally, during work weeks, I have to make late afternoon appointments. When I get there, they're running behind and taking walk-ins and crap. I also can't go to the gym because you can't work out after you've donated. (Nice excuse...I'm also not supposed to drink booze after, but when they tell me to "double up on my fluid intake" I just get the big jug of wine instead of the single bottle on the way home.)

Anyway, I set up an appointment for 11:30 yesterday, figuring I could take two cool Friday AM gym classes and THEN donate.

What I failed to take into consideration is that at that time of day, all the other donors would likely be crazy, effed up, and unemployed.

There was a guy giving his health history to the nurse in the station next to mine. You know how they always ask you those crazy sexual health history questions? Like, have you had sex with a Samoan guy with Barry White playing in the background? If yes, which Barry White track was it? Was the Samoan man wearing his native dress prior to the sex acts?

You know..that kind of crap.

Anyway, the donor in the station next to mine was asking the nurse questions that would make John Holmes blush. He was asking, "If I've had sex with a person whose gender I'm unsure of, and whose sexual history I did not obtain prior to having that encounter, should I be giving blood?"

Guys....I am NOT kidding. That was his question VERBATIM!

The nurse said she was going to get her supervisor involved in his history screening because she was unsure of how to answer his questions. As she made her way away, seemingly to get her supervisor, he started calling after her, "I mean, I'm sure you've been through the same thing, right? You've probably had partners whose gender you're unsure of. That's pretty common, right?"

She tried to gracefully exit the thing, but he continued to call after her, "I mean, what would you do under the circumstances? Would you be surprised?"

OK, here's the gross part, as he was asking her these questions, he was getting increasingly frenzied and kind of (it grosses me out to say it) excited. He was getting loud and his stutter was getting more and more pronounced.

Clearly he was trying to get his freakin' rockets off by asking this poor young woman these questions.

Jesus, all I could think of was that Buffalo Bill guy in Silence of the Lambs. (It puts the lotion in the basket. SKIN SUIT!!)

Finally, I was taken out of there and brought to the donation room. Thank God.

Several moments later, though, Buffalo Bill appeared. I kept thinking, "I hope they are flagging this maniac's blood for immediate disposal after the donation."

For some reason, the nurse on duty was telling all of us how long we'd taken to donate a complete pint of blood. I am always told that I go pretty fast, and the nurse was commenting on it throughout the collection. Buffalo Bill kept asking the nurse, "How fast? How fast is she going? Is she ahead of me?" He kept turning it into this sick competition. I didn't realize there was a speed medal for blood donation.

Anyway, in the end, it took me 7.5 minutes. Buffalo Bill came in a full minute behind me. Yes!

I was taken over to the snack table. There was some really sweet old lady over there. She had just finished donating and was having her snack. (And, in typical New England Nana fashion, she was emptying half the contents of the snack and beverage table into her purse. She wasn't even trying to hide the fact, either. Awesome. That's so gonna be me when I retire!)

The Tiger Woods conference was on, but the volume was off. The woman and I were speculating on what Tiger was saying. Suddenly, Buffalo Bill surfaces at the snack table. He looks at my Concord grape juice and says, in this attempted sultry tone, "I'll have what you're having." I just ignored him. There were 40 cans of the shit right in front of him. What was he expecting me to pour it and put a little umbrella in it for his ass. Yeah..I don't think so. (It puts the lotion in the basket!)

Whatever. The woman sitting next to me called Tiger Woods a disgrace. Buffalo Bill immediately jumps to Tiger's defense. "A man's got needs!" The elderly woman jabs back. "What he needs is a kick in the pants!"

Ha ha.

The woman turns to me and tells me that her husband cheated on her years ago and she dumped his ass. (She was still stuffing snacks in her suitcase sized purse at this point).

Buffalo Bill looks at her and says, "Maybe you weren't satisfying him in the bedroom."

For REALZ.

The woman and I try to ignore BB, but he keeps it up.

I sort of gently told him that maybe we could change the subject, that clearly the woman was uncomfortable.

Finally, though, upon his insistence of dissecting this woman's sex life, I had to go all Clarice Starling on his ass and tell him that I thought the line of discussion was inappropriate and offensive to two women he didn't even know. I suggested that we steer the discussion back to more neutral topics, or that we stop talking altogether.

The woman smugly stared Buffalo Bill down because I had come to her defense.

She and I both got up and left Buffalo Bill there, stewing in his grape juice.

I even wheeled her snack-filled luggage to the elevator and eventually to her car for her.

I could tell I had earned her forever friendship when, before closing her trunk, she opened her suitcase, reached in, and took out a pack of Lorna Dunes for me.