Que Seraph Seraph

Last week a 2002 Rolls Royce Silver Seraph bearing a FOR SALE sign suddenly appeared on the lawn of one of the execu-estates here in Lexy. Who this drive-by display was meant to appeal to is unknown. I mean, who owns a Rolls Royce besides oil sheiks and Thurston Howell III? Hmm, does it come with a driver?

Due to complaints from peevish readers, we have added an additional photo to this blog entry. It features, among other things, the bike rack outside the West Side YMCA on 63rd Street that was responsible for the tripping, falling, wrist-breaking incident earlier this year. Note that this is also the same bad-luck YMCA where Mark David Chapman stayed in 1980.

Camm-o-Glam

After the 100th email complaining that "Patti's not in the pix!" I arranged a rush photo session featuring my newest fashion item: camouflage pattern cargo pants. Made to render combat troops invisible among the weeds, jungle cammo is still very popular in certain hippie-fied sections of Cambridge, and I am told it's mandatory at gun clubs in the suburbs. Not that the we're trying to hide from anything. Just the opposite. We like the rough n' ready air it gives us. Especially when fighting for parking spaces [me first at the health club + (W)hol(e)y Foods]. As those who know me know: I'm rough 'n' tough; don't take no stuff.

Travels With Raleigh

Submitted by guest blogger JoeY

Late July

Pond.






Swim.

Hot or Not

Attended a 4th of July evening celebration held on a hill in Arlington that promised a commanding view of Boston's famed fireworks display. The big booms were scheduled to go off at 10:30PM, but after 2 1/2 hours spent crowded on all sides by The Public, I decided to bail out in favor of the relative serenity of seeing said pyrotechnic display on TV.

When it's 95 in the shade, there's nothing better than a refreshing visit to a Secret Swimming Hole in an undisclosed location. I'm tired of this heat!

Summer days in Cambridge

It was Formaggio Kitchen's BBQ Weekend, a must-attend for vegetarians like me who make exceptions for pulled pork, pulled beef brisket, pulled lamb, pulled spicy chicken, Niman Ranch dogs on brioche bun, grilled and smoked using a variety of woods and smothered in savory onions. Glaringly absent was the usual block-long queue of salivating BBQ enthusiasts lining the Huron Avenue sidewalk. Was it the July 4th holiday that kept them away, or perhaps the rumor that I'd be there to buy out the store?

The Secret Gardens of Cambridge is now an every-other-yearly event I first attended some years ago, and try my best not to miss. For one jam-packed Sunday a year, I get to wander around people's backyards and hobnob with amateur gardeners who take serious delight in creating tiny urban parks where you'd least expect to find them. A true inspiration for this Chauncy gardener.

The Boys of Banner Hill

To your left: photographic proof of old friend Sandro's ability to tolerate my show-off theatrics while visiting the Gloucester estate of Dr. Jay on a moody Saturday afternoon. Fortified by a free-range Mediterranean saladio and accompanied by Global Design Director JoeY, we scaled the local Matterhorn and noted the highest point in town from the former estate of Canadian-born glue czar W.N. LePage (yes, the Mucilage King himself).

To your right: Banner Hill below decks. The good Doctor led us to the basement to reveal an honest-to-gosh naval swivel gun, found buried on the property and dating back to the Napoleonic Wars (we hope). Sailing vessels of yore employed these to guard against invasion (and not the Bose kind, either). Maybe the LePage clan kept it around for similar purposes. Or maybe as an ancient form of Pulse Width Modulation. Who knows?

Just below: Sandro points out various geographic highlights of Gloucester Harbor while I dream of Nicoises I Have Known. It only took one flawlessly mixed wine spritzer for me to see that these fellas really know how to entertain a gal (and I mean that in the nicest way). A tour of the art-filled East and West wings capped a perfect afternoon by the sea.

Rue the Day

This blog's first embedded video: a clip from the "lost footage" of my association with Paris motorcycle gangs in 2009.

For Our NY Readers

I offer this lovely Mother and Daughter tableau rendered in hues worthy of a Flemish painter, which I have entitled simply, "Explaining the Wonders of Google."

Speaking of wonders, I also extol the virtues of Meyers Liquid Dish Soap. Biodegradable and made from lemon verbena, it's tops. I much prefer it to Big Chemical Company products. One of the few places you can get Meyers' stuff is at New York's Fairway market chain. Meyers has so many products that are packaged alike, you can easily come home with a bottle of Super Stain Remover when you only wanted dish soap. Fairway's upstairs dining room also happens to be a stellar spot for a feast of crabcakes and soft shell crab on a Saturday night.

Of course, the city's transit system is our magic carpet, spiriting us to destinations like Gray's Papaya, the Fairway and beyond. A veteran rider, it's Mummy's turn to show me the ropes of how to get a seat even when the bus is crowded.

I Get Around

Every day gets closer to summer, but I think I prefer the moods of late spring. Morning or afternoon, the sun is warm, the streets are walkable, and any number of shady lanes beckon.

You never know what you'll run into on suburban streets. It could be neighbors walking their dog, a lavish new executive mansion under construction, or a piece of heavy equipment parked by the roadside (with the keys in it).

Three for the Asking

Recently, JoeY was the recipient of a 1960 vintage Raleigh Sports bike. He feels it's a dream of understated elegance, but the ride could be less stiff and more forgiving on bumpy trails. With the help of my trusty 3/8" socket, I installed a brand new Schwinn seat, but no go. JoeY also gave a thumbs-down when the boys at Cambridge's Ace Wheelworks recommended a $200 leather Brooks saddle. The case remains open.

Not so with my homegirls Helen and Emmy. A big show was held this weekend at the Gymnastics Academy of Boston studio they frequent, and these kids tumbled like nobody's business. Check out the giraffe- and jungle-themed leotards, medals and big grins on this Olympian pair. Naturally, I was there to take photos and cheer them on to V•i•c•t•o•r•y.

The last item in our weekend news roundup is my visit to a little Japanese joint called Shabu Ya in Harvard Square. I sampled the superb scallion pancake and cavalcade of sushi, but could not take my eyes off the private booths screened off by Sicilian summer festival light fixtures and a mysterious curtain made from strands of ball bearings. Next time...

Gray's Papaya at Eventide

While in New York for Mother's Day, I had a craving for the special kind of hot dog only found at Gray's Papaya; browned and crispy as you please. It was late afternoon, and strong winds were howling in the streets. "Should we risk it?" I asked Mummy. "Don't worry," she said, "the wind always subsides at eventide." Eventide was a term used in the Middle Ages to describe dusk. Now you know where I got my way with words.

She also taught me the fine art of eating at a counter, which involves taking up space and discouraging people trying to crowd you. No matter. I'd have used my splint to cold cock anyone who tried any funny business. The winds continued to blow as we walked up Broadway, but it was worth braving the gusty currents: the hot dogs were simply delish.

Springly Things

Yes this is a duck, paddling around Lower Vine Brook in the Lexington woods. No, it's not me, but you could say I'm just as happy as Mr. Mallard. The next photo you see of me will be sans cast, and it's a fitting season to be disporting myself thusly. Spring is here with a vengeance (or a vacuum, depending on how ambitious you are) and nature's a bloomin' all over.

Castaway!

Allow me to tell you about my beloved Dr. Pap. He initially informed me I'd do a 6 week stint in my cast. But he gave me an unexpected prison release 2 weeks early for good behavior. I think he's aces. You will note my self-directed photo of him in action, taken on waning camera batteries by a hapless nurse. I shamelessly told her my little girl neighbors would thrill to the sight of my cast being sawed off. Can you imagine! The vibrating buzz saw was a bit scary even though I knew it would not pierce my skin. Once the dreaded encumbrance was off, my arm was revealed. Weak and a bit forlorn, but healing well. The occupational therapist promptly fit me with a lightweight splint: very high tech, made of thermo-something plastic, and custom-molded to my personal anatomy. I'm so damned happy to be free (of cast) at last!

My darlin' Sparkelene

Sunday marked The Boss's birthday, and I am consoled that she has plenty of lively canine company in the wilds of Lincoln, where she spent many happy hours at Camp Emily.

I feel lucky that she has a city and country resting place, thanks to my dear Global Design Director, The Richard E. Lee (in his debut as a stone chiseler), Therese + Eddie (f.a.t.s.), and Aunt Moon for their steadfast friendship and animal husbandry.

Cain't help loving that dog of mi•i•ine.

Heaven on Earth

Only a few more days in this tiresome cast. Tuesday I get my case (and cast) examined and, if all goes well, they'll saw it off and replace it with a splint. I can't tell you how glad I am to be getting rid of this heavy thing. It weighs upward of eight tons. I may be exaggerating a bit, but not about the relief I'll feel. Anticipation of this event made me so joyous I took a jaunt through the Lexington tree farm, a piece of conservation land set aside to grow municipal greenery. I felt happy as a young sprout. So happy that I later attended a special session of Observatory Nights where I shared my thoughts (and impressive views of the moon and Venus) with astronomers on the roof of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics.

Soul Sacrifice

Some corporate buildings are merely a neutral backdrop for workaday life. Others assault your soul with their monotonous blandness. I have inhabited both types. The lone picnic tables discovered outside the latter seem to suggest desperate measures; a hope that by taking a break in the out of doors one can somehow regain her humanity. Yet, isn't it the architect's responsibility to feed the spirit as well as house the body? The temporary nature of corporate buildings, with their so-called 7 year roofs, belie a cruelly spartan approach to design. Methinks we sometimes sacrifice too much in the name of efficiency.

All Charged Up

I got all charged up on electronics at the MIT flea market Sunday afternoon. Raw and cold as it was in the garage on Portland Street, I was on fire. There I found capacitors, both electrolytic and tantalum, offered at bargain prices; spools of RG-8X cable like you read about; plus a complete Nazi Enigma machine with a full bore documentary explaining its mysteries. Gals, if you like 'em nerdly and you don't mind the $5 admission ticket (the price of a boilermaker), this is the place to be.

Brave Tulips Bloom

This week saw the official Jardin de Sparquette bronze (OK, brass) plaque installed on Massachusetts Avenue. It provides a fitting and some say defiant counterpoint to that ignoble Harvard edifice I have come to call The Reichstag.

That the Jardin flies in the face of Harvard's monstrosity is no mistake. For weeks, nay months, I have been hearing similar complaints from neighbors and visitors alike regarding the despoiling nature of the gargantuan new building. And now mere yards from it, brave tulips have the audacity to bloom. Take that, Harvard!

On the Ball

Here I am outside Target in Woburn, MA, giving instructions to my accomplice "on the inside" by walkie-talkie. Note that I appear to be resting on a large red cement ball. In Barcelona, these balls are a design feature. They're commonly placed on sidewalks and plazas to protect pedestrians from being mowed down by errant cars. But since not a single car looked inclined to jump the curb, I felt quite safe.

I came here today to see how famed design house Liberty of London's patterns look plastered on Target's voluminous line of wares. And what do they look like, you ask? A bit chintzy, to tell the truth. It reminded me of Melmac or Corelle ware. (It's unbreakable, that's what it i•i•is...) The stuff just exuded mass-produced gimmickry. Of course, I am wild about Target. I just think they should stick with the basics and, when they team up with known quantities, they should keep the originality and the quality up to snuff. Nuff said?

My Worst Cauchemar

Imagine. You dream of being a celebrated painter. Instead, you end up sharing a suburban storefront with your husband's real estate business. To me, that would be a horrifying cauchemar (nightmare), but apparently one person is actually living it by day.

I'm not going to reveal the town this husband and wife realtor/art studio inhabits, and I deliberately blurred the signage to maintain the couple's privacy. I have a hard time publicly ridiculing someone's personal vision. Yet I suspect there's an exception for disturbingly weird combos of real estate and art, especially when it's truly, hideously awful. Anyone for teen girl fantasies incorporating pet lions and fey young men bearing roses and appetizers? Phew.

If you ask me, this kind of stuff should be limited to pen scratchings on the inside cover of a biology notebook and not shown in public (and never with price tags on it.) I'm sure some of you will think my cast has made me mean spirited. Maybe so. But honestly, would you want one of these creations in your living room? I think not.

Broken but Not Busted

Not one to let small things like a broken wrist stop me, one week to the day, I am back "on the job," brazenly lurking in local branch libraries. Arlington was the site of today's DVD snatch: Fellini's I, Vitelloni. I sullenly forked over my $1 rental fee. It's annoying that some branches charge money for DVD loans and others don't. I wonder if Barney Frank knows about this scam. I feel a Congressional investigation is in order.

As some of you may know, I am a vegetarian, but I do make exceptions for bacon, brisket, cheeseburgers, turkey and pork. Lucky for me the nearby Blue Ribbon BBQ was serving up delicious pulled pork and coleslaw, cajun style. I think I heard my doctor mention that BBQ was good for healing bones, and I'm not one to ignore sound medical advice.

Saturday Night at the ER

I tripped over the base of a bike rack on the sidewalk outside the YMCA on 63rd Street this weekend. I went down hard, fracturing my wrist (and my tough girl image) in the process. The doctors and nurses at Roosevelt Hospital were very pleasant. Although hanging in traction, being poked with needles, and having my wrist bones stretched and twisted was not my idea of fun, I can report that the big city ER was not anything like you see on TV shows. The staff did not keep up a constant barrage of amusing banter and witticisms. There were no romantic involvements between handsome residents and fetching hospital administrators. Unshaven, maverick medical genius diagnosticians sporting canes were conspicuously absent. Instead, everyone was boringly professional. When several NYC cops led a handcuffed prisoner in, I thought I'd see some drama at last. However the guy was quiet, well-groomed, and did not appear to be ruffled by his incarceration in the least. So much for entertainment vs. real life. Anyhow, I am now featuring a "half cast" on my right arm and learning to do everything left-handed. Our readers may have to get along with less regular infusions of my prose, however speech-to-text software could provide an answer. Let's try it:

uiyer lwkuhfg gd lkj

OK, well, maybe not.

Confessions of a Library Hooligan

The sleepy Concord Library simmered in the March sunshine like a sausage on a street vendor's cart. I gave the joint the once over and entered, lugging a bag big enough for a circus elephant to nap in. A snooty society dame at the desk gave me the hairy eyeball. She got a hard look from me in return. I cruised the DVD stacks until I found what I wanted -- an obscure Russian film that in one, long, mystifying take takes in every room of the Hermitage -- then took my stash up front. I was in no mood to show my card to the authorities. Hell, no. Strictly self checkout for me. The laser flashed in my hands like a paintbrush in Picasso's. Thirty seconds later I was out the front door, burning rubber on some dusty back road. I can tell you this: the Concord branch hasn't seen the last of me.