It’s rare to find crusty members of society’s upper echelons in dive bars in Jamaica Plain, but the Midway isn’t any old dive bar anymore, and sometimes the knickered and powder-wigged citizen of yesteryear likes to show up there to rocque out with bandmates.
I have to remind myself whenever I go to a music venue that closes at 2 in the a.m. that the headliner isn’t going to show up until some pretty late hour. But with it well past midnight and no Upper Crust in sight, I was beginning to wonder if I’d make it to the end. Of course, for members of the leisure class, time is a constraint that can be ignored. So I nursed a beer while bands like Top Heavy and Gene Dante and the Future Starlets played their sets.
I’m pretty talented at zoning out at 11 at night – my bedtime! – but Gene Dante isn’t easy to zone out to as he possesses a set of full-throated glam pipes (that lucky bastid!). And anyway, his lyrics are enough to wake up an old fashioned fellow such as myself (and maybe make him blush a little). Consider this nugget, called C Star, which he played on Friday night.
You’re scandalized, but it’s just a song, people! I saw Gene after the show, but failed to ask him to let me get a picture for this blog. If I had, I’d have insisted that no articles of clothing come off.
For the longest time now, I thought I knew what Bubble Tea was. It’s tea with bubbles, right? I drink a lot of water with bubbles, a.k.a. seltzer, but never tea with bubbles. But it was cold out and I was at Tealuxe in Harvard Square, so I reached into my wallet and found an extra 99 cents to hand over, and demanded in no uncertain terms that my China Oolong be given the gift of bubbles.
Maybe you didn’t know this, but Bubble Tea is a terrible misnomer. The drink I was given was as flat as the day is long, except it contained these macadamia-sized tapioca globules that came shooting up the straw and into my mouth unexpectedly. The first pellet to alight on my tongue caused such a shock that I immediately spat it into my partially closed fist and threw the spheroid into the gutter right there in full few of all the geniuses that populate the square. (Everyone here is a genius, including the street people.) Through the magic of google and my phone, I was able to ascertain that the Bubble Tea doesn’t contain bubbles, but giant beads of tapioca, and I was probably not being poisoned.
The experience was unhappy but wasn’t a total failure. I’m now determined to create my own carbonated tea and, to further confuse matters, plan to call it Globule Tea. Keep your eyes peeled for my Kickstarter page.
My kids hear that 1-877-Kars4Kids radio ad almost as often as you do, except it doesn’t annoy them the way it annoys you. Instead, it shakes them from their midday drowse, as I drive them from activity to activity, and makes them think, “Yeah, what the heck, why don’t we kids have cars?”
And why don’t they? It’s just like us adults to have all the cars, leaving them with none. Think about the children!
They threatened legal action as any children would do, so I explained that it’s just a charity trying to get people to donate their old, used cars to raise money for needy kids (or something). Entirely deflated by this news, they soon returned to their torpor, and me to my chauffeuring duties.