Upon arriving in BeanTown (at North Station), my traveling companion and myself walked along Summer Street across Fort Point Channel which gave a great view of the bridges on Congress Street and Seaport Boulevard, along with the Boston Children’s Museum and the giant Hood Milk Bottle.  Having no idea how pervasive the Hood Dairy Company is on the East Coast, the epically phallic monument to cow lactate had me aghast.

Upon dropping bags off at a custom framing gallery owned by my partner in travel, we headed back in to downtown Boston.  My Hipster-Sense kicked in immediately (it’s a lot like a Spidey-Sense) and I promptly found the most indie of cafés in a 6-block radius to aid my caffeine-stained brain: the Boston Common Coffee Co.

Left on my own to wander historic, downtown Boston, I made my way over to Boston Common.  I assume it’s only famous because of Anthony Clark’s stunning and cut-short sitcom by the same name.  Who cancels a new TV show that ranked 8th in yearly ratings… and who can resist the stunningly engaging Anthony Clark as a down-home Virginia outsider making his way through the big city in the Northeast?

I then made my way to the Massachusetts State House, whose sole historical significance is that of a symbol for antagonist Collin Sullivan’s ambition in Scorsese’s The Departed.

And what visit to historical Boston wouldn’t be complete without a Ben Franklin impersonator.  While he responded to my question about his syphilis ailment with much guffaw and accuracy, I, much like Dwight Schrute, am 99% sure that it was not the real Ben Franklin… 98.

Later on in my meanderings about town, I walked through most of the (expensive) Beacon Hill neighborhood – where the amount of perfectly-coiffed trees and historical homes were only outnumbered by the number of trust funders wearing Ugg boots and perfectly-bent baseball caps.

Rounding out my day on my train ride out to Wenham, MA (where I was staying in a secluded house in a forest), I partook in a cup of Bean Town’s finest coffee: Dunkin’ Donuts.  Rich, steaming, satisfyingly robust with a hint of burn, it was great to end the day with a coffee that didn’t cost three dollars while utterly lacking any sort of quality (Starbuck’s).

The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing with friends, drinks, Old Fashioneds that I prepared for my hosts, and helping a kid who was tripping on acid out of jail.  All in all, a complete success.

p.s. all photos except the milk bottle taken with my iPhone.  Apologies for the lack of quality.

Finally travelling again, boys and girls. This time I’m travelling via bus to the home of Will Hunting, illicit tea disposal, and horrendous accents (I’m vowing to annunciate my Rs every time I say “haRboR” or “my boy’s wicked smaRt).
More pics to come. For now, after a putrid departure from Chinatown, I’ll leave you urbanites with a pic of the zooming leaves from my window.

Well.  It’s been a while.  I’m not dead, nor is my computer – though I’m considering which death would be more tragic.  I have only one explanation for not actively letting you all know what’s going on: in the words of my friend, Anna, “Oops.”

That’s not to say I haven’t been busy.  In the past three months I’ve moved to a new apartment, doubled the amount of freelancing I’m doing, taken on more responsibility at HeaveMedia, completed a massive Capstone project (resulting in my graduating from graduate school), gone to Las Vegas, gotten punched in the face in a bar in Midtown Manhattan, gotten a new bike, thrown numerous barbecues, interviewed a band in Boy George’s old apartment, gone home to Chicago twice, saw David Bowie cooking eggs, and gotten my tan on an obscene number of times on my new roof.

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Today, I am flying from here:

To a location 2,158 miles away, where things should be different.  Au contraire.  I will likely see and walk on this:

Replicas of things always creep me out.  Replicas of the place I call home with the inclusion of neon lights?  Well, we’ll see how this goes…

My brain is already feeling more fractal than a Derrida hypothesis and I can feel the spirits of DeLillo, Pynchon, Wallace, and Thompson descending upon me.

Wish me luck.

That last post was a little harsh.  Anyway.  This is what’s really been happening:

On Thursday, I rode the subway all the way through Brooklyn, to the AirTrain, straight to the ever-festive, newly remodeled Terminal 5 at JFK.  I fly in and out of this terminal quite often, as I’m building JetBlue points for free trips to such charmingly demure locales as Bogota, Colombia soon.  Nonetheless, it never ceases to amaze me.  This place makes me feel like Schaumburg, Illinois took a Woodfield Mall-sized dump on Queens and JetBlue decided to jump on the shitstorm that ensued and open shop.  What results is an airport terminal complete with fountains, skylights, plants, a LaCoste store, numerous places to get drunk and eat Buffalo wings, and a food court:

A quick vid of Terminal 5:

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