Every girl needs a hotdog boyfriend

Really, it's not as dirty as it sounds. 

I have written before about my close proximity to Spike's Junkyard Dogs in Allston. When looking at apartments, I remember noting it in the "pros" column that I would be living near a place where I could procure a hotdog after midnight. Is the neighborhood quiet and safe? Eh, ish...BUT HOTDOGS LATE NIGHT?  Sold. 

But aside from being a regular patron, I have a special bond with Spike's. Or rather, one particular employee of Spike's. I jokingly refer to him as "my hotdog boyfriend" but really, it's not a joke. What else would you call a hotdog salesman who calls you by name and gives you free fries occasionally?

I know his name, too: John. He was actually one of the first people I met after moving to Boston. I moved a whole month before my grad program started and it was a fascinating experience because I got to see what it would be like to have no friends. I don't really recommend it.  But I did get very comfortable chatting up strangers in bars just out of sheer raging loneliness. 

So a day or so after settling into my studio in Allston, I ventured out to lunch. To Spike's. And John instantly pegged me as a newcomer to the area. He commented on what I was wearing and said something like, "You don't look like you're from here." I told him I had just moved from Brooklyn. "Well, you look very New York," he said.  I took this both as an insult and a compliment. 

And so our relationship blossomed. We have discussed everything from the novels of Charles Dickens and Obama to our various sleep disorders (he's an insomniac, I tend to oversleep whenever possible) and hot sauce preferences (me: Sriracha; him: Cholula). Once, I drunkenly invited him to come to my a cappella concert in Cambridge and he actually showed up. My friends were like, "How do you know that guy?" And I was like "He sells me hotdogs late at night."

You might wonder if our hotdog romance ever became a real romance. The answer is no. I think at one point he might have asked for my number and out of awkwardness, I gave it to him and he texted me once and I didn't write back and then we never spoke of it again. Because as nice as he is, I like the dynamic of our relationship as is, that of hotdog seller and hotdog consumer.  

It's been 4 years and a lot of hotdogs and curly fries. When I move to Chicago this summer, I will miss John. Fortunately, I am moving to a place famous for their hotdog culture. A total coincidence? Perhaps not. 

(Yes, major disclosure slipped in there -- I am moving back to the Midwest! A post about this is forthcoming)

In Memoriam: Allston Cafe

Friends, it is with great sadness that I announce the closing of one of my favorite neighborhood haunts: The Allston Cafe.

Since moving to Boston a little over two years ago, I have frequented the Allston Cafe (formerly known as Herrell's, when it was under different ownership). On Yelp, I gave it a rare five-star review. It was really a unique place, beloved by Allstonians, and very popular. On weekends, it was often impossible to get a seat and the wait for their amazing breakfast sandwiches was sometimes epic, but always worth it. I always overheard people discussing their art shows, band tours, and latest tattoos. The wifi was free and the coffee was strong. And they served breakfast all day, every day. What genius created the Tiny Mighty, the eggless breakfast sandwich for only $2.14? What giant among men (or women) figured out that grape jelly would take the Meg Muffin (egg, cheese, sausage) to the next level?

Apparently, Allston Cafe was forced to close due to a dramatic rent increase to the tune of $1700, or roughly 794 Tiny Mightys. I recorded my final visit this past Saturday; I hope you enjoy my photographic tribute.

Crime doesn't pay

In just a few days, I'll be heading back to Allston. It's been a great six weeks and a good, long summer in general but I'm looking forward to settling back into my school routine. And I have missed my neighborhood and its (admittedly ghetto) charm.

A fellow Allstonian was kind enough to send me a link to today's Allston-Brighton police log. Here are some highlights of all the action I've been missing:

Cormac Mullen, 21, of 16 Dighton St., Brighton, was arrested Aug. 24 for allegedly stealing American flags from the World War II, Vietnam and Korean War memorials in front of the Brighton Police station at 301 Washington St.

When police asked Mullen why he stole the flags, he reportedly said that he was “stupid.” Police arrested Mullen and charged him with larceny.

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Two police officers were sent to the hospital and three individuals were arrested after an Aug. 30 party at 16 Wadsworth St., Allston.

Police responding to neighbors’ complaints about loud noise at 3:53 a.m. reportedly met resistance from the female resident of that address. When police asked her to quiet the partygoers, she reportedly told police “I don’t have to do anything you say. I’m a law student.”

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Police arrested an Allston man Aug. 28 after he assaulted patrons of Allston Food and Spirits with a silver-colored meat cleaver. Mayaner Reyes, 19, of 69 Empire St., had been harassing customers outside the store for most of the evening, according to the store manager.

A store clerk called police shortly after 9 p.m., after Reyes allegedly threatened an Allston woman with his cleaver, saying “Get me some beer, or I’ll kill your ass.”

Police conducting a search for the suspect found Reyes visibly intoxicated in his apartment, his meat cleaver in the kitchen sink. Police arrested Reyes and charged him with assault with a deadly weapon.

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Azine Kouyoumdjian, 53, of 39 Silver Hill Lane, Waltham, was arrested Aug. 30 after allegedly stealing $231 of produce from Shaw’s Market at 370 Western Ave., Brighton. Kouyoumdjian was charged with shoplifting.

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Initial thoughts:

$231 of produce? That's a LOT of produce. I mean, a tomato costs like sixty cents.

It's ironic that a law student would think she didn't actually have to, you know, obey the law.

Do people other than butchers really own meat cleavers?

Man, I can't wait to get home.

Remember McGruff?

Who Am I?

(hint: the answer is not Jean Valjean)

In my nonfiction writing class, we've been reading excerpts from memoirs and personal essays by authors ranging from E.B. White to Maxine Hong Kingston. For my first workshop piece, I'm focusing on the question of identity by telling the story of my crazy freshman year suitemate, Bashe, who desperately wanted to be British and spoke with a phony accent 24-7. Issues pertaining to my own concept of identity tie into the essay (what college freshman isn't unsure of who he/she is?), which got me to thinking about how others perceive me vs. how I perceive myself. What I am discovering is that context is everything.

For instance, I have recently been detecting something unusual from Ali, the balding overweight man who runs the corner bodega by my apartment (the Linden Superette). The look in his eyes when he rings up my items....could it be pity? Why does this man feel sorry for me? Then I realized that I always come in alone, often unshowered, without makeup, and wearing sweatpants. And I regularly buy cat food and frozen Lean Pockets. He thinks I am a lonely cat lady! When this dawned on me, I felt compelled to dress up and enter the store flanked by an entourage of attractive friends...but this guy probably doesn't feel superior to many people, so I think I'll continue playing the role of single, homely, cat-owning woman.

At my new waitress job, Exotic Sushi and Tapas, they clearly have a different perception of me. Those of you who know me have heard me gripe about this place -- I'm trying my damndest to stay positive because the food is delicious and I think the owners mean well -- but the fact remains that I have worked there for 6 weeks now and not seen a paycheck. I'm making tips and my hourly wage is only $2.67/hr so it's not like the check is going to be that helpful, but still, it's the principle. Many employees have quit because they weren't getting paychecks and it's hard to understand how/why management believes they don't have to pay their staff. The only conclusion I can come to is that in their eyes, I am slave labor.

(In a meek act of protest, I have started giving my customers free miso soup. I fancy myself a sort of Japanese Robin Hood, distributing miso soup to the masses. We only charge $2 for the soup, but considering how cheap it is to make and how much gets thrown out, I think the end justifies the miso.)

Finally, let's examine how one other party perceives me: my cat Maude.


Not to brag, but I am the center of Maude's universe. Maude is mesmerized by my presence -- I am all powerful. When I come home at the end of the day, she is always, without fail, waiting by the door, meowing. The unconditional love pets provide is pretty nice -- no matter how shitty I may feel or how people may treat me, I know there is one living creature who will always crave my affection and attention. It's almost enough to give me a God complex. Almost.

In defense of Allston

I'm just going to say it out loud on the interwebs: I like my neighborhood, Allston. Allston gets a bad rap for being too noisy and saturated with college students, but in my opinion, this is worth putting up with in exchange for what you get. And what do you get? An affordable area that's always bustling with activity, with a bevy of ethnic and inexpensive food options (does your neighborhood have two Korean restaurants?) and every convenience you could possibly want within walking distance. Liquor store with decent wine selection? Check. Diner where you can get breakfast all day? Check. Used clothing store? Check. 24-hour grocery store? Check. Coffee shop with comfy couches and free wifi? There are five of them.

You can also do all of the following, within a few blocks of my apartment building: get a tattoo, drink bubble tea, mail a package, get your laptop fixed, buy a mattress, get a $10 manicure, eat a hotdog at 1:00 a.m. and rent a truck.

But a picture tells a thousand words, so here is a little photo essay that I put together in honor of my humble neighborhood.

Typical apartment building (though not mine)

So yummy.

Really? 'Cause I can be pretty cheap...

Second Cup Cafe

Dress in the window at Pixie's

The Sunset Bar and Grill has 112 beers on tap

Whew! Thought I was going to have to look on eBay.

Cool window art at LAB

Lunch and martinis at White Horse Tavern

No idea what this is...a generator of some kind?


Blinged-out Uncle Sam in front of Mike's Cheap 'n Chic

As you can see, my 'hood has got a lot of character. I mean, even the trash cans are works of art:

Allston, I *heart* you. Keep on keepin' it real.

On the Street Where I Live

This is dedicated to the spray-paint graffiti artist whose work, pictured below, is on Gardner Street in Allston.

I have often walked down my street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I several stories high.
Seeing obscene words on the street where I live:


Are there lilac trees in the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour out of ev'ry door?
No, it's just on the street where I live!


People stop and stare. They don't bother me.
For there's no where else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can see porn on the street where I live.

Overheard in Allston

So I was working on my laptop in my favorite neighborhood punk-rock coffee/ice cream shop, Herrell's Cafe, when I began eavesdropping on a tragic conversation happening at the table next to me. This guy was detailing some trauma to the chick sitting across from him, and I overheard him say something about an accident wherein he got burned. Intrigued, I began to listen more closely.

Burn-victim guy mentioned something about accidentally inhaling fuel and deciding that day to "quit." Wow, I thought, this guy must have been some sort of heroic firefighter before he got injured. The girl listening to his tale of woe was nodding sympathetically and holding his hand across the table. It was all very emotional and made me feel guilty about my chosen profession, which will never put me in harm's way or involve any life-saving.

Then I hear the guy say, "Yeah, well, fire-eating is definitely the most dangerous thing I've ever done."

Ok, never mind. Dude, you make the choice to stick a flaming baton down your throat, you deal with the consequences.

Beantown!

After a truly exhausting and harrowing 2 days moving (I drove a 14' ft. U-Haul!), I am now semi-settled in my new digs in Allston, MA. So far, Allston reminds me of the East Village: lots of young people, bars, cheap Indian food, and sometimes you see a pair of underwear on the street. Favorite neighborhood business thus far: Horror Business. You know, for all your horror business needs.


According to the website:

Horror Business is a store for people who are hardcore about their music, their gear, and their scene. We are independent and answer to no one -- this allowes [sic] us to keep the store stocked with an ever rotating of clothes and music that you won't find in the nearest mall.

Words can't fully express how excited I am to shop there.

That's all for now...back to unpacking!

P.S. Due to the fact that I won't have cable and wireless installed until next week (damn you, Comcast!), I won't be able to post as regularly as usual and my posts will probs be kind of short. Deal.