Matching up with your Mazda or Maserati, or mere Matchbox, in Massachusetts. (But unlike Joe Walsh, you won’t get to drive anyway near 185. Eagles fly? Or even 55, like Sammy Hagar.)
Is it easier to drive in Massachusetts or the homeland of hamas … If in either Boston or Gaza, whether it be homes beautiful or bombed out, there is plenty of time to gaze or gape, out the window, then gasp, while stuck in traffic waiting for the gas station, for a turn.
In this area where the US was born, and Revere rode, you now have roundabouts and go for a couple or three blocks and make a turn, go for another few and make a turn, go for another few … all the way it seems through fricken Massachusetts! It might be for better planning to blow up the whole place and start from scratch. I told a friend that this could be described as a war zone, but that friend said that could drop too much of a bomb, and I don’t mean to minimize the plight of Palestinians. Don’t put a missile in my missle.
A recent trip revealed very little sign of a plat book in the past. Rather when they had the Boston tea party, I think they had imbibed in more than the green, black or gray. Like when going over a big river crossing, I believe some of them stopped at a bridge joint, beneath such an olde tavern sign, and tipped a couple, rode another few blocks without turn to the next appointed and marked bridge joint and tipped a few more, then went further, and eventually realized that oh gee, we forgot to make that logically arranged set of street maps for those who follow behind us! While we are still sober. Wait, that ship sailed about a mile back.
But of course, those were the horse and buggy days, and if the horse knew which way to go it wasn’t straight. Just needed to leave the width of a horse’s butt. Or if traveling by mule or donkey, the breadth of its ass … Like the mule that has a bale of hay — or a convenience store — on either side (while tied?), in a field, and can’t decide, so died, because it couldn’t choose which to take and choose and eat. Made us hungry.
So gotta follow that with a tale of more trash. If you take it to the end, the depths of a dumpster.
When crossing that bridge, we according to our google, had arrived at our destination, a seaside diner for dinner, but it was ten feet past by the time we took notice. After fully another ten feet, and yes another ten feet or maybe two, there was — a right turn. And then after another ten feet or maybe two, another rise turn and we missed that one too. I then made a bold prediction that was also a bad joke. I said hell, go another such step and you’ll likely get to park next to the dumpster. We traveled such a distance and I spied just to the right — a dumpster! And there were not one but two spaces available. So I turned out to be just as much a psychic as the one that predicted there would be a straight shot that goes for not ten miles but 20 or maybe even 30, if we trek as far as New York. Then the traffic battle starts anew.
On this journey, we saw homes with both brick and board, still looking all colonial — can I say that so close to The Fourth? — but so pristine it was offensive. The burg of the average bloke still would go for not a billion, but maybe more than a million. This will put in context the fact that Barack Obama’s former home has an asking price of $39 million. That makes him a mere mortal.
And my mom said to my niece, looking to relocate, that so many homes in the Boston area feature obviously dug out basements, so old (vintage?) they’re now back to that state.
Just don’t say bombed out.
Leave a Reply