One Day, Perhaps

On days when I'm feeling brave, I tell myself that I'll move to Nashville, Tennessee and have a peacock farm. I'll write books, smoke cigars, and admire the flamboyant prancing of the peafowl- the rare albinos like snowflakes, and the standard peacocks colored like toxic puddles of fuel and water, or bubbles floating in a summer breeze.

Parched

For a hot sec. yesterday, I went to Rockport, MA for a healthy dose of ocean air. It's a picturesque town, to be sure, and like most tourist towns it has an array of candy/fudge/cupcake shops, sweatshirt stores, and art galleries that are situated on seagull-infested stoney bluffs that overlook the sea, which is all very good. But nice as it is, there is no way I'd be able to stay in Rockport for any space of time longer than 48 hours, or want to stay there for any more than five. Why? Because it's a dry town.

If ever there was a setting for a sticky, cozy bar with an ocean view and good beer, it would be Rockport. The fact that it's lacking in such amenities seems like an incredible tragedy.

Brent told me that Rockport is dry because, once upon a time the fishermens' wives got upset with their husbands always being drunk, so they took blunt objects and broke every bottle, cask and barrel of alcohol in the town. As we all know, women can be very scary when they want to be (though usually they are soft and kind and smell exclusively of roses). In this particular instance, the men of the town were too afraid to reintroduce alcohol to the locale and now it's banned by law (though I'm sure you can bring it in from, uh, wet towns and enjoy libations inside one's own dwelling). I don't know how true this story is- but it sounds about right.

Until this law changes, I will not go back to Rockport. Unless, of course, I really want some fudge and shellfish jewelry.

My roommate asked, "What's up with all these Mtv dates you keep going on with your co-workers?"

Last night, I went to the Boston Skating Club and for the first time in years! laced myself into ice skates. Every Tuesday from 8:30 to 10:40 they offer open skating with live organ music of the polka variety. I expected to see a lot of tiny Olympic wanna-be figure skaters prancing around like fawns on ice, but the demographic was mostly comprised of middle-aged former skaters who took the opportunity to practice old moves and get some exercise. Also, there was a staggering number of the very elderly in attendance who had stayed up past their bedtime to glide around on the ice and couple skate like middle schoolers at a roller-rink. It was pretty adorable, and they were actually quite agile, all things considered.

Personally, I made myself very proud when, after a surprisingly short space of time, I no longer moved like Frankenstein On Ice and was able to do crossovers and little spins without once falling on my bum.

Sadly, I don't have pictorial evidence of the adventure due to the fact that the skating warden did not allow us to take pictures on the ice, but I can assure you that it was a truly magical way to spend a Tuesday night. Perhaps I'll even go again next week! But probably not.