SIR James B Barnes ESQ. III

Sir James B. Barnes ESQ. III, a Knight of the British Realm, no less, has a paving stone in Quincy dedicated to his memory.

A google search for his name reveals nothing. And so his memory lives on, humbly achieving immortality, in that small paving stone, next to William and Mary Kelly, in that historic, blue-collar town in the state of Massachussets.

Not Your Average Joes

The irony - the sweet profound, utterly unseen irony - of this place is that it is very much the absolute definition of Your Average Joes.

Drink

Last night, me and my buddy Al went to Drink. To drink.

Drink is a fancy cocktail bar where they have no menu. You just tell them what you want and they mix it for you. A mere ten bucks a go. Our 'mixologist', Brad, told us that 'cocktail-centric' people from all over Boston flock to Drink. That's what he said.

I wisely stuck to rum based drinks. John Martyns, Mojitos, Daiquiris. And I felt the benefit this morning. Al. on the other hand, lacks my self control. He lost the plot entirely and opted for cocktails containing egg-whites and cucumber. He's probably still in bed after that shit.

The Way Home

RE: The Way Home?
From: musters
Sent: 17 October 2009 03:33:07
To: george.pelecanos@orion.co.uk

Dear Mr Pelecanos,

I am in Boston tonight and am thoroughly enjoying "The Way Home". It reads like a modern day fable and is a very fine match indeed to chicken wings and Sam Adams.

I have one small question if you'll indulge me, Sir.

On page 215, of the Orion edition, you say (in relation to the young boys who find Ben's mutilated, rat-infested cadaver):

"What they saw would trouble them into adulthood and haunt the youngest for the rest of his life."

Poetic and haunting words, if I may say, but they beg one important question. Since the book is set in modern day Washington DC, how do you know?

Best Regards,

Musters

The Braintree Train

On the 'Wed Wine to Bwaintwee' earlier there were two adenoidally annoying girls behind me speaking in the international interogative white chick patois.

(pinch nose)

And I was like toatally, no way, and he was like, way, and I was like soooo wasted cos I been drinking like like loads of wine??? and I hadn't had anything to eat???

(/pinch nose)

This shit went on all the way from Alehouse to Davis Square before they finally got up and left to like toatally get off the train???. I had a look at them as they left and they were indeed white chicks in all but, er, colour. These idiotic chatterboxes were, almost unbelievably, black.

I'm all for racial integration but when black girls start to sound that white it may have actually gone too far!

Musak in Hotel

Suicide is a terrible thing. It touches many lives.

I was at the hotel reception earlier sorting our four separate issues/questions. They had they most God awful jazz muzak playing in the background. But LOUD in the background.

I said to the dude, How do you put up with that all day?
I like it, he replied. Smirking.
He was joking. So I joined in, Why don't you kill yourself for some light relief?

The receptionist standing next to him burst into tears and left. We both watched her go then looked at each other. Woops, I said. He merely shrugged.

By that time I'd got through only two of my four issues/questions. I decided to forget about the others. They were mere trifles no doubt. I repaired, with all due haste, to my room. And here I must remain for the time being.

Change is Possible

Sam Adams. George Pelecanos. The Celtics on tv.

Change is Possible.

Change is Possible

On Sunday night, at about 9 of the clock I was precisely where I didn't want to be.

Shannon Airport.

To be fair to Shannon Airport I didn't want to be at any airport. Or indeed anywhere that didn't involve me being safely ensconced in my home. Easing my way out of the weekend.

But, of all things, the parking machine cheered me up. It told me to stay positive. Look on the bright side. With the right attitude, love and hope then things would surely get better.

CHANGE IS POSSIBLE. It told me.

Gately, Boyzone

Young Stephen Gateley, of the group Boyzone, was found dead in his apartment yesterday.

The English press are saying that he was found by his husband. The Irish press are reporting that he was found by his partner.

So who is right? They both can't be. Was he found by his husband or his partner? A mystery within a mystery.

Richman at the Roisin Dubh

On the way to see my hero Jonathan Richman last night, I took this photo:


I was a little taken aback to see Centra using this since I've come to believe that the strapline was mine own. Imagination is a powerful deceiver.

Here's a picture of the great man.
He's a genius. Simple as. A man out of time. Thankfully NOT for the way we live today.

But, then again, neither are fucking Centra. Not anymore, anyway.