Pleasant Cafe: This is your grandfather's bar

As soon as we got to the sidewalk in front of Pleasant Café, it was clear that the stories about it were true. It’s brightly painted side wall baring its name greeted us as we walked toward it from the north, and as we approached the front door, the façade almost totally windowless and with dirty neon signage reminiscent of movie diners and old stories, a couple of townies burst through the door and out into the unseasonably warm winter evening.

“We should be wearing bikinis!” the drunk-at-6PM-on-a-weekday tavern-goer exclaimed to my amused wife. She and her consort stumbled past us, pushing the door a little extra open as they left for us to make our way in.

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Kelleher’s Bar & Grill: Wherein my positive experiences in new places end

 

It was dark and kind of creepy in here.

It was bound to happen eventually. After weeks of new places and fantastic results, I found myself a pretty uncomfortable stinker of an experience.

After a few recommendations by folks on the Universal Hub forum, I decided to give Kelleher’s Bar & Grill in Roslindale a shot. I was looking for a place to grab dinner with some friends, and none of us wanted to go far. Kelleher’s wasn’t far, so we went.

The strip of Centre Street where Kelleher’s is resembles a lot of the street in Jamaica Plain, but a bit more suburban in feel. The bar itself has parking out front, and very little in the way of windows to give you a clue of what you’re getting yourself into. My party entered to find a large, 8-bit zero shaped bar, half a dozen TVs on a few different sports channels, and about fifteen of the eighteen people in the bar suddenly staring at us.

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A Political Adventure: Wherein the Author Learns about Local Party Politics and Eats Donuts

I woke at 8 a.m., which mixed my brain up for a few moments, as it was under the impression that it was a Saturday. As everybody knows, alarms don’t go off on Saturdays. No, sir. For the nine-to-five, forty-hours-a-week Joes and Joans - those who still go out late and drink hard, but whose bodies can no longer bounce back without 10 hours of sleep and a multivitamin - Saturday morning serves primarily as a brief buffer between party o’clock and brunch.

After shutting off the Barenaked Ladies/static of my radio alarm, I shook out my cobwebs and remembered I’d done this to myself on purpose. I’d promised myself I’d try new things, hadn’t I? I’d just moved to a new neighborhood in Boston, and was now registered in a new Ward. Today was caucus day for Ward 20, and I’d decided to go, to meet some of my neighbors, and if possible, to be elected a delegate for the 2012 Democratic State Convention in Springfield.

Given my location in Roslindale, I’d been under the impression that I was in Ward 19. That would’ve been better, as Ward 19’s caucus was later in the morning and about a mile and a half closer to where I was standing in my boxers. Alas, from the state that brought you gerrymandering, I’d have to go to West Roxbury.

The Ward 20 caucus was scheduled at 9 a.m. at a place called the West Roxbury Pub. It was a bit early to be in a bar, and in fact, it was statistically early to be at a caucus. Of Boston’s 22 wards, only two others had their caucuses at 9 a.m., both of which are in South Boston.

The time of this caucus, to me, seemed designed to discourage young people from becoming involved. The reputation of West Roxbury (and South Boston), deserved or not, as an insular community that doesn’t welcome outsiders didn’t allay my suspicions.

I put on some pants, I tied a tie, and I went out the door at about 8:15. I was peddling my way to West Roxbury, and though it wasn’t far, I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I also needed some coffee.

By 8:30, I was on Centre St. in West Roxbury, locking up in front of an almost comically Irish-style bar, fully equipped with a shamrock-laden green and white sign in Celtic font and virtually no windows. Union guys were standing at the door asking for signatures to get incumbents on the ballot, allowing most of them to run unopposed.
I was surprised as I walked by that they didn’t ask me to sign them. With a half hour to kill, I walked up Centre looking for sustenance. I found it in a little donut shop called Anna’s.

Adventuring within the constraints of schedule, finances, and ability

If you've ever talked to me for more than a few minutes, chances are you've heard me go on and on about another place. While I am most notoriously known for jabbering on about my love of Paris, I can be brought to reminisce about the glory of Alaskan nature, the seemingly lawless joys of late night San Francisco, or the proletarian charms of Detroit if the proper situation presents itself. Frequently, this faux-worldliness is perceived as impressive at first glance, though after a few encounters I'd imagine it gets kind of tired.

With this in mind, I have a few admissions to make.

1. I haven't been to that many places. I've done a good number of road trips with bands, friends, and activists over the years, and it has allowed me to see a good number of American cities and towns. These mini-adventures drew me to want to see more places and things, but in reality, I've only left the US twice.

2. One of those two departures was to Canada, which barely counts.

3. I haven't gone anywhere in a long time, and I'm getting a bit itchy about it.

As is the case with most people these days, I'm having trouble justifying the costs of travelling. Or rather, I could justify spending the money if I had it, but I don't have it, so I'm not going anywhere. This lack of adventuring in places foreign or domestic has increasingly led to my becoming bitter with my surroundings. I've become bored with my day-to-day, spending hours dreaming of other places, and even keeping webcam streams of other places open on my desktop just for the change of scenery (see screen capture).

In the past few days, I've thought hard about this markedly first-world problem of not being able to go wherever I want at any given time, and I've decided to try to make some lemonade out of this sour attitude.

Thus the purpose of the blog. I will be striking out in my own back yard, seeking out stuff I've never seen or done right here at home. I'm going to explore neighborhoods I have little or no experience with, patronize places I've never considered going to or ignored because they're "all the way in Dorchester" or "at the end of the Green Line."

I live in Boston, Massachusetts. I've lived here for over 10 years, and I've lived around it my whole life. Like any long-time resident, that's made me pretty complacent with my surroundings. But Boston's still Boston, right? This is one of the most famous cities in the United States. People come here from all over the world. There are people sitting at their jobs in Nebraska and Croatia wishing they could go to places I don't even pay attention to anymore because I see them so much. Folks wait their whole lives to go to places I've been avoiding since 7th grade field trips. There dozens of museums and galleries I've never gone to in the metro area. Boston has a lacrosse team! I don't even know what lacrosse is! Sure, I've been to Chinatown, but I haven't eaten at many of the hole-in-the-wall joints that the locals line up for. And what the hell is on the Blue Line?

The plan is to go somewhere or do something new every week. I'm sure I'll miss a few, but it's a priority not to. Even if it's something small like a restaurant, it feels necessary to seek out the great stuff around here armed with nothing more than a bike, the subway, shoe leather, a camera phone and a couple of bucks at a time.

So why read this? Maybe you'll learn something about the area. Maybe you'll learn what not to do? It's possible you'll even get a laugh out of my ridiculous need to find meaning in my surroundings. Hopefully, it'll make you want to get out of the house and see the awesome stuff that's right outside your door.