Road show

It was only right that I should show up to the Red Sox parade. Dashing off an article for this week’s paper on some not very interesting local politics, I dumped the car at Lincoln Station and took a commuter train packed to the gunnels with kids and young adults skipping school or work. Not for the last time that day did I feel old.

Police were out in force, some in riot gear, others regulation issue sun glasses. Others pacified dogs, eager to get in on the action. The crowd boisterous and vocal lobbed whatever they could find and officers would tolerate back and forth. If you needed toilet paper at one of the port potties then too bad. That was among the first missiles to decorate the roadway.

But it was a fun day, the parade passed quickly, but not quietly, and an iron grip descended on the crowd as it wrapped up. North Station was a zoo as massed ranks of weary travelers tried to unravel the station announcements and weave between dazed and tired fellow members of the Nation to reach the right platform.

It was a good day to claim allegiance to the home town team.

Thank you Red Sox

I really appreciate the Red Sox response to my last post. Thanks to everyone, life can get back to normal.

I can shift the pile of Globe sports reports that has been growing taller in their "lucky place" on the dining room chair since the turnaround win in Cleveland.

I no longer have the responsibility of watching games through to the end "just in case" because they lost game 2 and 3 to Cleveland when I retired early on those nights .

It was a great year and I actually got to see a game way back in April on supposedly "unlucky Friday 13th".
Boston beat the LA Angels 8:1 that night - the very team they swept in the AL Series later in September.

Lucky for them I was there to start things rolling.

Wearing down the fan

Red Sox and Fox, you are running me ragged.

Game start times in late evening, extended innings and nail-biting finishes are giving me a serious case of nervous exhaustion.

Soccer cup competitions, with extra-time and penalty shootout formula are tense, but quickly over in comparison.

In baseball, every pitch is a potential disaster or delight, for hour after hour. No wonder everybody in the ballpark drinks or eats to distraction or spits whatever they spit (and that seems to vary as much as each game).

Perhaps it’s that I don’t understand the nuance of the sport, that it’s OK to throw a ball instead of a strike to certain hitters, or to hit a sacrifice and be out. But I see the same tensions ebbing and flowing on the faces of thousands of fans, players and coaching staff. Commentators and journalists refer to it as ‘the changing momentum’ and boy is it fickle.

Even with the Sox sitting on a commanding lead, I still expect them to blow it in late innings, and I’ve only lived here for the past for seven years, perhaps the most successful since their early years.

I cannot imagine how lifelong fans deal with each experience building on the past, like grains of sand in a sandcastle that is inevitably washed away as the tide turns.

So please stop it. Go Denver and win two more jut like 2004 in St Louis. Please, I need to feel better than this and so do the rest of Boston and the grandiose Red Sox Nation.

More required than a passenger bill of rights

Boston City Councilors are seeking to create a taxi passenger bill of rights along the lines of providing a safe, functioning and clean cab, with no music playing in the cab or cabbies chatting on cell phones while driving. In their response, according to an article in the Globe, cab drivers want a bill of rights for themselves; no drunk and vomiting passengers, no more than four passengers per cab ride and no abuse of the driver by passengers.

What I want is to pay via a fairs fare system, not take my life in my hands when I (rarely) take a cab and a driver who knows where he or (rarely) she is going.

I can say in all honesty, that I have never ever had a good or even satisfactory cab ride in Boston. Compared to the black cabs in London or even the yellow cabs in New York, Boston’s thinly disguised white coated cabs and their drivers are more like opportunists in clapped-out, cast-off cruisers. That seems to go for the suburbs too, based on my recent experience.

Journeys over 12 miles are charged at a flat, non-metered rate. A cab from Logan Airport to a town like Lincoln, 18.4 miles away, costs a flat rate $46.80, plus an airport charge of $2.25, plus tunnel tolls of $4.50, say $53.75 in all. Flat rate fares are charged at $2.60 per mile, metered fares are charged at $2.40 per mile plus a starting meter charge of 2.25. Either way the base fare, excluding tolls and airport fees, is between $46 and $47.

When I took a cab from Alewife T station to Lincoln--a distance of 9.6 miles--I assumed the same rules would apply. Not so – at least according to the driver and the dispatcher he had me talk to on his cell phone.

I should have been clued in by the fact the driver disappeared for a few minutes when we got in his sweltering cab and left us sitting there while he talked to the driver behind him. I should have known when he did not start the meter that we were in for a flat rate and as it turned out a flat out ride.

We had been traveling from Ireland to Boston via Dublin and Heathrow, including layovers, for the better part of 18 hours and were understandably tired. We took the Silver Line to South Station and then the Red Line to Alewife Station. The cost for the 40-minute subway-ride was $1.75 and it was around 9:30pm when we dragged ourselves to the taxi rank.

Then the cab took us for a ride.

Loading our bags ourselves, we found that there was hardly room in the trunk for our two modest size suitcases (they weighed less than 42lbs each – thanks to judicious packing and the weight restrictions imposed on the Heathrow to Dublin leg of the flight).

We could not see out of the cab windows, any of them, because they were so steamed up. More to the point nor could the driver, except through a fuzzy patch the size of a laptop screen.

When we reached the ramp at the Lexington line, we were all plunged into a blackness that the cab’s single working headlight could not penetrate. The driver did not slow down from the maximum permitted speed of 65mph, or perhaps that was just how fast the straining engine could go. The driver’s solution was simplicity itself. He straddled the lane marker, even when three lanes became two and he followed it unerringly, despite the attempts of other vehicles to persuade him to pull over.

In fairness, he did get us home or at least to the top of the drive where he stopped on a our unlit narrow, but busy two-way road, 3 feet from the curb - without hazard indicators flashing.

I waited for the driver to tell me the fare, clutching a twenty and a ten, perhaps more in hope than any real expectation. I was definitely unprepared when he said the fare was $56.

I protested and asked to look at the book of fares. After five minutes of rummaging, he came up empty. I asked for the dispatch telephone number. That’s when I made my second mistake.

He dialed a number and spoke in a language I did not understand and then handed me his phone. I should have dialed the number on my phone.

The dispatcher, or someone who said he was the dispatcher, told me that the fare to Lincoln from Alewife is $56. I paid. It had been a long day.

Did I get the cab drivers name, cab plate, registration or telephone number? No, as I mentioned it had been a long day, now going on 20 hours of travel and foolishly, I was keener to get off the pitch-black road and indoors after 17 days away.

Did I get wise to the cab industry in Boston? Most certainly.

I will never get in cab without checking that its lights work, the driver has a medallion with his picture on it and I know the price he is going to charge.

These are your rights and mine; everything else is just a load of bill.

How much is enough for us?

Should we measure the value we have in our lives by the amount about which we have to complain?

I’ve been thinking about this a great deal recently.

For example, at the regatta on Saturday, an articulate, and to all outward appearances, well-fed and adequately clothed black man clutching a bundle of newspapers approached the crowds lining the riverbanks.

“Ladies and gentleman. Ladies and gentleman. Can I have your attention for just a moment? Can you help the homeless today? Can you spare a dollar to purchase a newspaper from me to help the homeless?”

Of course, I bought the $1 newspaper, called Spare Change, as did five or six people from the all-Caucasian crowd around me. The seller went on his way smiling and calling out the same line to garner attention from the next pod of spectators.

Inside the thin paper were articles on the laws affecting homeless people, editorials and advertising copy. There was also a warning to check the seller wore a blue badge. As with most things, these days there are several scams as this report in the Globe from last year indicates.

I have to admit I did not look for an ID - not for a dollar purchase/donation. Perhaps that says something about the relative value of a dollar to me as the buyer and to the seller, whether homeless or not.

On the inside back cover, a list of organizations indicated that it was possible to obtain hot food three times a day, various food supplies and somewhere to stay overnight. I don’t know the quality or general availability of such hospitality and in truth hope never to have to test it out of need.

Food, shelter and an opportunity to earn a small wage appeared to hold a greater value to that individual than seems apparent for those given to complaining about their boss or the traffic conditions on the journey to work. Throw into that mix their angst over rising mortgage repayments, shrinking house values and the stock market volatility. Take a break from that as you sip an overpriced Starbucks' latte and ponder whether the Red Sox have the right (highly paid) players to win the World Series and the difference is glaring.

One of my former bosses, consoling me after he told me that I would not get a pay rise that year because of conditions in the industry, said that I should actually thank him.

“It’s a well known fact,” he said, “that people live 10% beyond their salaries. I just saved you money.”

Perhaps he was right.

Head of the Charles Regatta and others.

There has definitely been a theme of trying new things this year, although you will be forgiven for not knowing that due to the paucity of posts.

I plan to rectify the posting situation by resurrecting this blog and in the immortal words of Highlander, “There can be only one”, so this blog is it.

Strictly speaking I should remain the blog “An English/American in Boston” since I became a citizen last May, but it does not have the same ring to it.

Ok, I have ignored the Head of the Charles Regatta for the seven plus years I have lived in the Commonwealth. Not for me I thought – all those Ivy League types, the rowing community – men in caps and blazers that fit them thirty years ago parading with waspy-waist women in summer dresses, hospitality tents with cucumber sandwiches and white wine, jazz bands, pretentious awards and phony accents. No thanks, not for me sir.

Oh dear, it turns out that I was getting confused with the Henley on Thames Regatta, which I attended on one occasion to receive an award for design innovation – but that’s another story.

The Head of the Charles Regatta was real people having fun, pumped up with live rock and reggae music, lots of free stuff and blessed with glorious fall weather. Wave after wave of rowers, buff, synchronized, almost majestic, swept seemingly effortlessly up the river.

Being amongst fit people of all ages, doing what they enjoy is uplifting to the human spirit. It appeared so exhilarating I almost wanted to take up the sport, but I’ll probably settle for the stationary rowing machine at the gym. There’s less chance of capsizing that way.

Peabody and more

Today was an opportunity to get out and explore Salem, MA. More infamous for its much heralded and now commercialized witch trials, Salem is home to two institutions worth visiting. The first is the Peabody Essex Museum, recently renovated and expanded it bills itself as a cultural art museum. The emphasis is on maritime and Asian art, which seems and odd combination at first, but since Salem was once the premiere port in the New World, many artifacts from the Orient found their way to America via Salem.
The museum boasts a fine collection of maritime art, photos and china. Native American art from east to west coast and down to New Mexico is part of the permanent collection as are works from China, India and Japan.
We went to see the exhibition of contemporary furniture "Inspired by China" and fell in love with several pieces. Not in the sense of the need to possess, but rather the desire to make similar pieces. A pipe dream, maybe, but the simplicity of design and artistry of the work, coupled with its sensuous texture, created a "what are you smoking" moment? We both love working with wood and have about 60 mature oak and maple trees on the lot, so judicious cutting and replanting with younger more vigorous oxygenating trees could maintain our existing carbon dioxide neutral state and provide materials for crafting. We just need a three (or four) season workshop.
A bonus was the art exhibit from M.F. Husain, India’s most famous living artist and his epic work "The Mahabharata".

The photograph is of Cornell "Sugarfoot" Coley performing traditional drumming and dance works from West Africa, Cuba and Brazil, to the delight of children and adults.

The second best discovery is Boston Beer Works. Terrific, brewed on the premises selection of Extra Special Bitter (aka British bitter), hoppy India Pale ale and cask conditioned (yes wooden casks) strong ale. Food is great pub fare with flare (stir fried vegetables with ginger on jasmine pilaf rice) and the fish part of the fish and chips is real fresh haddock, white and flaky, not the usual soggy frozen gray mush served up by other pubs. The size of the portions is excellent without being obscene - two large pieces of fish, which provides plenty for a hungry one, or two on a budget. Quibble - why don't they teach bar staff to fill the glass. Imagine being served a 12 ounce glass, with a half inch of nothing above and inch of foam. Needless to say it was sent back for topping off.

Did I mention we are brewing our own beer at home these days ?

First Night - first time

A strange thing happened on the way to New Years Day 2007- we stayed in Massachusetts.
After 6 years of living 12 miles north-west of Boston, we actually spent New Years Eve in downtown Boston. But why was this the first time and just where were we in previous years?

With help from digital photo records, it turns out it was with family in Peoria, IL on two occasions (2002/2005); hiking the Yorkshire Moors, England (2004); sightseeing in Washington DC (2003) and with friends in the Adirondacks NY (2001) and Banff, Canada (2000). No wonder we felt at a loss for something to do this year.
A quick peruse of the Globe gave us the kernel of a plan. 2007 First Night - Boston, a series of events started thirty-one years ago to celebrate local artists and neighborhood organizations. Performances in forty locations consisted of short films (mostly good – some very good), music (classical guitar - standing room only and in one case with dire acoustics ­­– barber shop chorus in a shopping mall), comedy, puppetry, parades, ice sculptures (melting) and of course fireworks. Free admission to some museums, the aquarium and all events with a $15 button was great value, beaten only by free travel on the T (subway) after 8pm.
Trouble was that by 10:30pm we were so tired, cold and full after dinner at an Italian restaurant all we really wanted was to go home, stretch out in the warm, watch a movie, and drink champagne.

And that's exactly what we did.

Happy New Year and best wishes for a great and successful 2007

Multi-level friends

The invitation to go out to dinner on Saturday night in Arlington was unexpected, but we pride ourselves in our flexibility. I live far from my family in England and lead a monastic, solitary life as a writer in terms of "workmates" and even after 6 years here have made no long-term friends.

That's not surprising really. People whose company we enjoy or who we started to get know well invariably, a) got married and found a new focus, b) moved to a different state and in one case country, c) had children which curtailed their freedom or d) had family or work life that overtook them.

For our part, once hosts to several parties a year, we just got out of the habit of entertaining. Oh sure, we had some clunkers in the party stakes, but we also had some great dinner parties too. For some reason the effort became greater than the reward.

The invitation to dinner came in a phone call from a couple we did not know at all really. My wife first met Monique (not her real name) at a conference and could hardly wait to tell me about this spirited woman of French extraction she had found so simpatico.

We agreed to meet Monique and her husband Lenny (nor his) in an Indian restaurant, chosen by them for our benefit because we are vegetarian. We are easy going and so were they. Conversation flowed. What do you do? I guess I was feeling dumb, because his answer, "We've started a franchise – but it's hush hush," did not raise any flags. Sure there were questions like – "where do you see yourself in five years?" and talk about residual income and financial security. We explored each other's background, discussed films, health, food and touched ever so gently on politics, which was unavoidable given the proximity to state and national elections.

We split the bill and parted as if old friends, with a promise to share a film, to stay in touch and to meet up again soon.

The following Tuesday night, past the hour that our respective families would consider appropriate to call, my wife recognized Monique's number on the caller ID and answered the phone. After a few minutes, I heard her normally exuberant tone ratchet down a notch or two.

"No Saturday was not a good day for us," I heard her say.

It was true; I would be out of town at a mystery writer's conference.

"No Tuesday would not work either," she said, although I wasn't quite as sure why not. Then I heard her say, "What exactly is the opportunity?" followed almost immediately by, "But what is the product?"

That's when I knew we had been multilevel marketed to. My wife was on the phone for another 15 minutes, too polite to be impolite as she certainly would have been to a cold caller with a proposition. She finally closed the conversation by agreeing to talk to me about attending an "opportunity meeting" and promising to call back the next day by noon to give Monique our decision. For Monique's part, she said that regardless of our decision we would still be "friends" and go out again together.

Based on my previous experience of multi-level marketing 10 years ago and, according to my wife, with uncanny accuracy, I played back the conversation I surmised she had just had. Seems the pitch script has changed little in that time.

As agreed, my wife phoned Monique the next day and told her that it was the wrong time for us and not the sort of business that her MBA from Babson, one of the country's foremost entrepreneurial business schools, was targeted at. Again, it took several minutes to disengage.

"Multi-level marketing and friendship" is an oxymoron. Friends don't use each other. Studies show that 97% of all people involved in this multi billion-dollar business do not cover their costs or even make enough to live on, let alone enough to retire on.

The only friends that I want are those that are on the level, from day one. Anything else is just dishonest.

Google aquires wiki company Jotspot

I posted an article about this on my Project Leader blog and thought that I would link to it from here.
About a year ago I started using collaboration software known as a wiki written by startup company called Jotspot.
I was very taken with the way it allowed multiple people to share documents, collaborate on them in real time, make comments, track changes, brainstorm and maintain a record, all without the use of emails. In fact I believe that one day all teams of employees, volunteers, perhaps even writer's groups will work this way.
It seems that Google liked this philosophy of online sharing and collaboration so much that they bought the company.

No offence to workers or deer

Two news items caught my attention today, which I think we could combine to our Town of Lincoln's benefit.

The first concerns the proposed 700-mile long fence between the USA and Mexico, which President Fox has compared to the Berlin Wall.

In fact, the communist regime built the Berlin Wall, which was only 103 miles long, to keep people in the East, as opposed to the USA fence, which is designed to keep illegal immigrants out.

Another article suggests that factories on the Mexico side of the proposed fence (aka. the border) are suffering from a shortage of workers. So perhaps in hindsight President Fox is correct in his comparison and Mexico does need a Berlin Wall type fence, in which case Mexico should build it and fund the $1.2b that the Secure Fence Act requires.

Experts are concerned about the dire effect of the fence and lights on the migratory patterns of animals and birds, which links to the second item, one of Lincoln's favorite subjects, the ever-expanding deer population.

Some residents have cited increased accident rates as one of their fears. A report indicates that, with the end of daylight-saving time, the chances of encountering a deer crossing the road increase in October and November, since deer move about based on sunrise and sundown, and have no way of knowing that you have changed the time you leave for work or set off for home. However, according to a report from CNN, Massachusetts does not even make it into the top 10 states for deer/vehicle accidents.

So here's a thought. Let's build a fence around Lincoln to keep the deer out completely or perhaps simply to contain the ones we have, depending on your political point of view.

Fears feel foreign

I have provided more personal details than I ever knew I had.

I have supplied details of all of my travel outside of the USA, including my departure and return dates, the destinations and number of days outside of the country for the last five years. My fingerprints and palm prints are now on record, not once, but twice in the last four years. I have provided not only my details, but also those of my family, those of my children, my wife and my ex-wife and of alimony and my tax payments over the past five years. I have provided details of every organization I have ever belonged to, which ranges from the Boy Scouts to the Museum of Fine Arts. It is unlikely the US government has as much information about the average person reading this blog as they do about me.

You see I am a foreigner, an immigrant and as such less, than a US citizen, a status to which I still aspire.

I have an alien registration number and a "green card" giving me the privilege of permanent residency and I have lived and worked here legally since arriving in May 2000.

What I do not have is the right of habeas corpus.

That is the right to petition a court to appear before them to show that any detention for, in the words of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, "WRONGFULLY AIDING THE ENEMY", is unjust or in error.

Of course, it will never happen. I will not be detained simply because I will never aid the enemy of the United States of America. But, with so much information now so freely distributed, with reports of hackers and data losses (I have been notified twice now that my data was made available by mistake – thanks Boston Globe) what are the chances of identity theft occurring or even worse, being in the wrong place at the wrong time? If not identity theft consider this:

Moore is the 9^th most common surname in the USA and is possessed by 0.312% of the population (9,360,000 people). Even Geoffrey, considered the English spelling of Jeffrey is ranked 386^th most popular and used by 0.032% of the population (960,000 people). The combination is not a search possible on the Census Bureau website and so in truth, I hesitated even to post this out of concern for raising my profile. But fear makes victims of us all.

I just give thanks that my name is not James or Mary Smith.

Staple diet

A $5 voucher from Staples represents a powerful inducement to shop. At least it does at this stage of my writing career. Three reporters note pads, a whole pack of pens, five blank CD’s, the possibilities are endless. Couple this with another voucher, delivered courtesy of an email inducement, for a free 5 pack of multi-colored gel pens and I made it a point to shop at the Mall, which has a new Staples store.
My mission was simple. Come out with the pens, $5’s worth of other goods and not be tempted into buying anything else.
Within two minutes of entering this Aladdin’s cave of the business, art and school worlds I was sucked in by the video presentation of a Lexmark five-in-one printer, scanner, fax copier, pictbridge (print direct from a compatible digital camera), color, black and white, multi-sheet feeder block of solid grey plastic; only $99.98 after easy rebates of $50. Mmm… multi-sheet scanning, just what my wife needs for all her MBA notes, currently stacked and taking up valuable mystery novel space on the bookshelf. Yeah, I could sell that. A fax too; just what I need to deal with all those highly anticipated book contracts that will need signing urgently to prevent a logjam in cyberspace. Wait. A danger sign. It doesn’t say it uses the feeder for scanning and there’s a big pile of inkjet cartridges on sale at two for $39.99, yielding 200 pages each.
Ok, peace. I have four perfectly fine not-in-ones; laser printer (toner cartridge $59 for 2500 pages), photo printer, scanner (which doubles as a copier) and I can always leave the mystery books piled up on the floor as they have been since January, waiting for some loving attention.
But I could use a new memory card for my camera. It would save me taking my laptop on the plane for downloading the hundreds of pictures I will take of Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sierra Nevada National Parks. $49 for a gigabyte is a bargain, but that’s for the slow speed version. Ah, this one. $69 for a high speed version. Okay, discipline is required in taking pictures and in spending, find the pens, find something for a $5 and get out.
Pens. Pens, so many pens, but none of the free ones. What a con. What else can I buy? Oh, there they are; $3.99 a pack. The advert said $5.99, but Ok, free is free. Just add some special pens for marking backup DVD's and CD’s for $4.99 and we’re off to the cash desk.
“How is it you are doing?” says the woman behind the desk.
"Fine, thanks and you?"
She scans the first item, my free pens and bags them and then the second item. I hand her the free pens coupon and she starts to read it.
“For what is this?”
“Pens, gel pens.”
She picks up the CD marking pens, rescans them and scans the coupon. The scanner does not work.
“Oh is not working,” she says eying the line of six people behind me.
“No for the gel pens,” I explain. “Here, look, sonix gel pens.”
“Is out of date”
“No, it says that the offer is good until 31/8/2006.”
She picks up the gel pens.
“Ah, these.”
The scanner is not working. Eight people shuffle their feet like a centipede whose Valium is wearing off. I imagine I hear a sigh.
“I type number,” the woman says and proceeds to laboriously read and finger tap the 13 digits. The register blinks, beeps and spits out a receipt for $0.
“No. No. Is not good,” the cashier says, looking at the receipt before realizing that that is exactly what it should say.
She repeats the digit entry from my $5 coupon. Nothing happens.
“Manager, front desk, manager front desk,” she says into a handset. The conga line of 12 people moves their shoulder as well as their feet, no doubt pondering giving up their purchase and searching for an escape route.
“I think it’s this number you need to type in,” I offer, pointing to the one under the bar code. She does and the register repeats its performance and spits out a second receipt, this one demanding 25 cents. The tax, I’d forgotten the tax. Mission failed. I offer her a $20 bill.
She looks at me and across to the line of 15 puzzled people who are now making huffing sorts noises. “I have no change, something smaller please?” she said.
I breathe deeply and shake my head as she reached into a drawer below the counter searching for pennies. I realize that there is still a chance to declare 'mission accomplished'. She finds only 15 cents.
“Ten,” she says and then again, louder “dime.” I wait for an offer from the line behind me, but another checkout has opened up and is moving fast and instead the remaining customers in it move to the new line, unwilling to pay 10 cents to end the ordeal. We look at each other, waiting to see who cracks first. It’s me.
“I have it the car,” I said reaching for the plastic bag. Her hand beat me to it.
“OK, I wait,” she said, now clasping the bag and its contents to her bosom.
By the time I return the new register is closed and all customers dealt with. It is just me and her and I hold out one of the 25 cents I keep in the car for feeding parking meters.
She picks up the handset again and speaks into it.
“Cancel manager front desk. Cancel manager,” booms around the store.
“Have nice day,” she says exchanging the bag for my quarter.

A trick question?

Here's a few more of examples of the defensive nature of some people you meet here on the east coast.

Hard(ware) times.

"How you doing?"
People ask me that all the time, often not listening to the answer, but friendly enough. So I thought I'd do the same at an aging hardware store in Acton, about 20 miles northwest of Boston. The place serviced garden equipment, mowers, ‘weed wackers’, chainsaws, and refilled propane bottles out back in a shed so rickety and full of holes that the wind or a heavy snowfall was more likely to flatten it than a propane explosion.
"How are you doing?" I said to the fit looking man who was tanned, 50-something, dressed in working boots, kaki shorts and a faded blue tee.
"What?"
"How ya doowin?" I asked again broadening my accent in a lame attempt at a 'Bawstn' drawl.
"That's a trick question," the gasman said, taking the container from me.
"No. No tricks here," I said. "I don't ask trick questions." He didn't look up or say a word as he went about filling my 20lb bottle, gauging how full they were by opening the release valve until liquid gas squirted out, hitting his bare leg and evaporating. Fumes filled the shed pushing me further back and re-enforcing his invisible 'no-go' zone.
He took a deep breath, handed me the bottle and oozed, "Mmmm. That's a full one."

Checking out.

"Phew, it's really warm outside," I offered in casual conversation.
"Must be nice to get out there?" the woman cashier in a red Hawaiian shirt replied as if it was my fault our roles were not reversed.
"Yeah, but a bit too hot to do much," I said in an attempt to convey it was better to be packing groceries in an air conditioned shop.
"I went for a bike ride this morning," she said squashing three bananas under a can of organic tomatoes.
"Really, that must've been great." I fiddled with my wallet, extracting an ATM card to pay and paused while I swiped my card. "So where's a good place to bike around here?"
She looked at me with eyes narrowed, as if considering an invitation for a date from the Boston Strangler.
"On bike paths," she said turning to serve the next customer.
"Oh. Thanks," I said and went outside to eat a banana.

I'd be interested to know what you find different from where you're from.

A place to work and play

Rockery Pond at the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary

Today I want to work for the Massachusetts Audubon Society. The idea started with my membership renewal coming due and the realization that I had to find at least $50 to pay for it. At least save a stamp I thought, and renew on line. A five minute task done the pen and snail mail way turned into a two hour perusal of their website at http://www.massaudubon.org/ and for the first time I understood its not all for the birds, although they do provide the main theme for conservation and advocacy. Indeed, it was two women, Minna Hall and Harriet Hemenway, who founded Mass Audubon in 1896 and did so to stop the large-scale slaughter of herons and egrets in the South. Hunters killed the birds solely to provide feathers for women's hats. Hall and Hemenway successfully pressured their contemporaries to shun feathers, reducing demand, and Mass Audubon later advocated for the passage of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918.
If not birds then, what is the focus? Well, land (approximately 31,000 acres of it) plays a very large part in what the Audubon Society seeks to protect which in turn conserves the flora and fauna that thrives on it, including the birds.
So what exactly could I do for them? Full time jobs range from Director of Legislative Affairs located on Beacon Hill to Apprentice Livestock Manager (well for a 1-year period). In between are office jobs, educationalist, camp leaders and travel tour planning, with many roles located at Lincoln's lovely Drumlin Farm.
The Audubon Society appears to be the perfect vehicle for a journey back to the land, a stepping off point to conservation and wilderness work. It would be strange to start the journey of protecting goldfinches on the cultured highbrow slopes of Beacon Hill with its gold-domed State House. I'll mull it for a day, which is what I do with most fancies, and then get back to making a living as a writer.

"Verizon. Can YOU here me now?"

"Can you here me now?" has become a trademarked catchphrase of corporate telecom giant Verizon thanks to millions of dollars spent on media advertising. So it was with some sadness and frustration that I found myself cancelling my landline service and giving up the distinctive phone number that I've had for the past six years.

Something went badly wrong with the phone line while we were out of state facing down a grizzly in Glacier National Park, but that is a story for another day. When we returned, messages on the answering machine were indecipherable. Was that a job offer or just another Sierra Club solicitation? We will never know. A buzz all but obliterated every word. "Hello…BZZZZZZZZZZ..."

Hunting out an old bill for the number and after navigating multiple key press options to call the repair line, the voice recognition system was unable to understand anything I said. Usually when that happens it is because of my English accent. This time, it was the "BZZZZZZ." After a few minutes of hearing,

"I can't understand what you're saying,"

an agent came on the line and took details of the problem, informing me that there was a $91 call out charge and that any work required would be $91 per half hour thereafter. Having spent 28 years working for Nortel, a company that makes telephony and data equipment, I had already checked the house interface and found out that the problem was not within the house wiring.

"Ok, there will be no charge if it's our line," the agent said, adding, "someone will be out between 4 and 8 on Wednesday."
"But it's Monday; can't they check the exchange and fix it sooner?" "No'" was the response.

On Tuesday, we got a call and barely made out that Verizon were confirming that the service person would call Wednesday between 4 and 8 and that no access to the house would be required. "4pm and 8pm," I confirmed. "Yes."

Wednesday came and went, then Thursday and Friday and still the "BZZZZZ" was overwhelming. On Saturday, I phoned the 24-hour repair line. The number was unavailable, I tried from a cell phone. I tried from an internet phone. The number was just unavailable.
On Thursday, I received an email from Vonage, offering unlimited dialing across the US, Canada and get this, to five European countries, including the UK for $24.99 per month with 2 months free for existing customers (which I am, but that's also a story for another time). This compared with paying Verizon $29.49 for local service only (including taxes and caller ID). We had eschewed both Verizon's and ATT's long distance service due to the standing charge and high rate to the UK. Both were achieved by using included cell phone minutes and paying extra for calls to the UK at an admittedly low price of 3cents per minute, using a third party supplier, Pingo, and dialing access codes and passwords.
Within two minutes of pressing the order button, a confirmation email detailed my new number. Within 70 minutes it was up and running.
On Monday, one week after the first call, I phoned Verizon service centre. With no word on the repair, so I requested cancellation. The operator wanted to know if I was moving, presumably so they could sell the service to the person moving in. I told them that I was cancelling, because I did not have to put up with an inferior quality line or service, at a cost that exceeded other suppliers.
After holding for a few minutes, I was put through to another department, expecting at least some interest, an apology or an offer of compensation for lost service. The technician simply asked,
"When do you want me to turn off service?"
"How about now?"
"We can do it within two hours," he offered, also asking where to send the final bill.
And that was it. I checked the line 30 minutes later and the BZZZZZZ was gone and so was my line and old telephone number.
"Verizon. Can YOU here me now?"

News articles for Lincoln Journal

Work published to date includes local news and lifestyle features. The first article, published on the Journal’s front page involved attending and reporting a meeting on controversial expansion in Lincoln’s historic district requiring interviews for information and quotes. Click here to read. The second in the Arts and Lifestyle section is a feature on aspiring writers and the Lincoln Library 'Write Stuff' writer's group. Click here to read.

Think local, act local

Freelance writer, Geoffrey P. Moore, signed a contract today covering his services as a correspondent (a stringer in the vernacular) for the Lincoln Journal.
No get rich quick scheme, the Lincoln Journal will provide an audience for Geoff's writing and source of attributed clips, required for progress towards a full time career and credibility in magazine journalism.
A small step perhaps, but with the purchase of Community Newspaper Company (CNC) by Gateway Media Inc. the focus on local news will in the respected Journal will increase.
Large media publication readership has declined over the past year, whilst the number of people subscribing to newspapers covering local news events has increased.
Perhaps, as readers have become weary of the deluge of media information on global events, they prefer to shut their doors to what is going on outside their immediate sphere of influence and think local. I hope so, at least for a while.

A taste of England - courtesy of the Phoenix Rising

For the first time since I moved to the USA I watched the FA cup Final, this year between Liverpool and West Ham United.
For those that don't know West Ham is a district in the East end of London, very close to my birthplace. Too close as it happens - I support Leyton Orient, because they are my home town team and Arsenal, because I lived only half a mile from the ground and had many happy hours in the local pub, listening to the crowd and watching on TV. Tickets were impossible to get - harder even than the Red Sox.
So West Ham are rivals and since I was in the Phoenix Rising - an Irish pub on Mass Ave just up from the Central T stop - that was decked out with Liverpool flags and patrons outnumbering West Ham supporters 5:1 - I supported Liverpool.
The place was packed when I got there, no seats and no chance to get to the bar until half time. That worked out fine since kickoff was 10 am EST, so it was respectfully past 11am by the time I took my first sip of beer.
The pub was filled with chanting - oohs and aahs at each miss and hearing the cockney voices of West Ham supporters made it feel as if I was back in the London of my youth.
Why had I waited so long to find a pub showing football. Well $20 each for this pay per view event is one of them, denial is the other. But this game was worth it with Liverpool coming back from a 2 goal deficit only to fall behind and come back again to draw with a spectacular strike on 90 minutes (full time). Extra time was a drag, with West Ham coming closest and the game finished level to be settled by best of five penalty shots. Liverpool's keep saved three penalties to give them the win. All in all a really great game, the last to be played at Cardiff Arms Park in Wales and the first to be witnessed in Boston

Advice from a Lemon

"I hope he is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." So says a quote from Bridgewater Board of Selectman, Herb Lemon, in Thursday's Boston Globe.
Mr. Lemon added, "I don't care what this person's background is, homeless or not, there is no excuse for it."

The heinous crime? Did he hurt someone or worse molest a child under the guise of priestly protection?

No. On a hot day, a homeless man dressed in dirty jeans, a thick leather jacket over a hooded fleece and known by residents to be living rough in local woodland, put his hand in a change jar at a roadside lemonade stand and took out $8 instead of paying for his drink.
The stand was set up and being run by children aged 8 to 12 in aid of Relay for Life, an annual cancer walk of the American Cancer Society. The children, who appeared shaken and voiced disbelief at the alleged theft from their charity effort, had raised $40 towards their target of $100 after 4 hours work.

Yes, people should not take money from children; yes, children have a right to sell lemonade for a good cause (especially if they had a hawker's license and a charity registration).

However, people of America, Selectman of Bridgewater, Boston Globe -- let's get things into perspective.

A homeless man, overdressed on a hot day, living in woodland is arrested and charged with personal larceny, which carries a maximum sentence (fullest extent of the law) of 24 to 36 months in prison for $8. The Globe reporter and photographer is on hand to snap pictures of a cowered man being led away in handcuffs and a second police officer handing dollar bills (the evidence) back to a group of 8 children.

Does this make any sense?

Doesn’t this AMERICAN man need help, at least as much as an American Cancer Society and at least as much as people in other countries that the USA is pouring billions of dollars into? When arrested he still had the $8 on him. That's it; no other means to pay for a glass of lemonade was mentioned.

Perhaps Mr. Lemon's call for retribution came from his heart and not his head, since he has just finished a course of cancer treatment and was grateful for the funding of research that allowed such treatment?

It is a petty he had not just finished a course of being homeless. He might have had a trace of compassion for those for whom a lack of treatment or a glass of lemonade on a hot day is a way of life.