The Portsmouth Pages

The beat of another's drum

2006-03-24T20:31:00.000-05:00

After 3 years of marching to the beat of my own drum, I've decided to take a job with the Man. I'm still a technical consultant, except now I have a boss, health insurance, a salary and a commute. Feels good actually. Hopefully I can pick the Portsmouth Page back up in the summer when the town is bustling again.

Getting Out: Berkshire Weekend

2005-12-27T12:44:00.000-05:00

Finding the spot

Justin had been vacationing in the Berkshires, visiting his friend Johnny (aka Biltmore). Johnny worked for the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) as the director of the northeast region or something like that. He lived in a cabin of sorts on the property of an organic meat farmer named Dom. Justin had been out there a handful of times, including a weekend where they slaughtered some of Dom’s chickens at a neighboring farm.

Back in July, I had organized a camping trip out near Conway, NH with some of the Portsmouth folk. Justin enjoyed the hiking and that, but wasn’t overexcited about staying in a campground with strange camp hosts and cars all around and just general reminders of industrialized life. He preferred backpacking trips where you hike all your gear and food in and immerse yourself in the wilderness. The idea is nice and doable for people who have the gear and the will, but getting a number of friends out on the trail might have been more effort than it’s worth.

So on one of his weekends out in the Berkshires, Johnny showed Justin a cabin that was about ¼ mile off a remote road. The spot would allow for the car camping types to have access to any desired amenities and the backpacking types to be away from the cars and the people and everything else that might detract from the experience. The cabin had a woodstove and bunks to sleep eight or so. It was also right on the Appalachian Trail so we wouldn’t have to drive to get to great hikes. So he came back from a weekend out there and described the place and started getting a weekend together.

As he started getting it planned, it turned out that first available weekend was the first one of November. The idea of how cold and miserable it might be in the mountains in November was a bit of a deterrent, but the cabin with it’s wood stove and the chance of foliage counterbalanced the weather. Justin sent out the email to get people going and Johnny and his girlfriend Kate and her sister Meg and our friend from growing up Jason and I signed up.

Getting out

Justin was working down in our old hometown, Medfield. He was building his second spec house in hopes of selling it for some kind of profit. I was living Portsmouth, NH and working up in Portland, ME Monday-Wednesday and from home Thursday and Friday. Earlier in the week, Justin had been up in Portsmouth and we text messaged Jason from a bar one night to see if he really was coming. He confirmed and said that he’d be up Saturday morning.

I drove down to Medfield Friday morning to meet Justin and make the longish drive out to western Mass together. Arriving at his house a bit late after a horrible traffic jam, Justin was in the shower. I had stopped in downtown Medfield and picked up a sausage pizza from Royal, which makes the best pizza in the world. Justin’s dad, Chuck, who I’d known for over 15 years was home and invited me in to his office to chat. So I went in with my pizza and started eating and Chuck asked me if I was still in the stock market. I said not really and he said him neither. In fact, he had just sold everything and bought a house in Florida. It was 3:30 and he was drinking a glass of wine and the news didn’t really surprise me so much as make me wonder what strange chain of events had led to this purchase.

At the same time, I was inhaling my pizza. He tried to hand me the photo album with the pictures of the house and I showed him my greasy hands. Chuck was also a photographer of sorts. He offered to get me a napkin, and I grabbed the cloth napkin I had grabbed off the kitchen table on the way in. I reluctantly put down my pizza, wiped off my hands, and started leafing through the album.

And as I leafed through the album, Chuck told me the story of how he came to own this house. The details were many and perhaps private and but suffice it to say bizarre. Either way it was a good way to pass the time and I was able to finish my pizza and reunite with Chuck, who I was always happy to talk with.

Without further ado, Justin came down from his room and we gathered his dog Izzy and jumped in the SUV and were off. The ride went fairly quickly and we stopped at a liquor store in Great Barrington and Justin picked up a small bottle of Jagermeister and a magnumof Shiraz and soon enough we reached Dom’s farm.

The Farm

It was dark when we pulled up along the side of the road outside the farm. Izzy had known for a couple miles before arriving that we were almost there and had been whining and wheezing and straining from the backseat, as if she wanted to jump in the front seat and take the wheel and double the speed. We got out of the SUV and Izzy jumped out and a pack of dogs started barking and coming toward us. We walked across the lawn in the dark and a little black lab, Johnny’s dog Goober approached me with something that looked like a toy or a ball. I reached down to grab it out of her mouth and stopped just short upon smelling the foul rotting flesh smell radiating from the thing. Izzy joined the pack of dogs and they went off into the night to do their dog things.

Justin and I entered the house. Meg was positioned at the stove stirring a pan of fragrant chopped meat. She put down her wooden spoon and gave us a hug. Meg was tall and thin with curly brownish hair and the thick plastic rimmed glasses of an unabashed academic. Just behind her was her older sister Kate, who also gave us a big hug. Kate was short and blond and fit and happily covered in traildust. Behind the stove was an old rustic table where sat Johnny and a trail worker named Kevin (not to be confused with the author).

I had met Johnny and Kate and Meg several times before as Johnny and Kate sporadically came out of the mountains and down to Portsmouth for a bit civilization and at least one night of all out partying. Johnny and Justin had met at UNH years before. After a prolonged academic experience prior to graduating, Justin went on to pursue a number of unconventional occupations including working for a band that toured the country for a year and a half, managing a fleet of ice cream trucks, day trading, becoming a carpenter and then building his own spec houses. When Johnny graduated, he went into the woods. I could never have claimed to have known Johnny’s personal philosophy, but it seemed to have somewhere it core: Nature = Good; People Messing With Nature = Very Bad. He was a blond pony-tailed, long bearded guy who had gone off to work in the mountains. Kate and Johnny shared many of the same expressions and implementations of how humans should live within Nature and spent a lot of time together on the trails in the Green Mountains of Vermont. Alongside studying botany or forestry in college, Johnny seemed to be an ardent student of nature and could point out many of the interesting plants and trees and other details of the forest as you walked along with him. On top of that, he was a walking encyclopedia of many things historical including architecture, politics, sports and who knows what else. In a nutshell, he was the kind of guy you’d want to have with you when playing trivial pursuit or out for a night of pubquiz.

As we settled in, the conversation quickly turned to alcohol. Justin mentioned the Jagermeister that he had picked up and Kate gleefully proclaimed that we should drink it now while we all had empty stomachs. After doing a reality check to see if that was really was what called for, Justin went out and got the 375 bottle. I asked for a beer and Justin, Kate, Meg, and Dom quickly polished off the bottle (amounting to about two good size shots a piece).

The next item on the agenda was dinner. Dom had suggested a café down in Great Barrington that turned into a Mexican restaurant on weekend nights. We headed into town and Izzy burped a dead animal burp. The cafe was found and immediately greeting us was a Mexican man asking if we had made reservations for 6 people prior to seeing a movie. The fact that we were 7 people and weren’t going to see a movie and didn’t make a reservation seemed to desperately confuse him. Nonetheless, he sat us in the corner and rolled out the menus and waters and chips and salsa and took our drink orders and Meg exchanged unknown thoughts with him in Spanish.

The décor of the space was fascinating. The regular coffee shop furnishings had been overlaid with Mexican ones, including a Virgin Mary with a candle, Aztec looking birds, handwritten signs about the virtues of patience, and more. It became difficult to discern what decorations originated from the café and what had been overlaid by the Mexicans. Starting into the Margaritas and beer, we tried to imagine the operation of putting them up and taking them down every weekend night.

The menu itself was another whole world. The appetizers included fried grasshoppers and spicy corn on the cob while the entrees included braised goat and funky pork along with the expected choices of enchiladas and chile rejanos. The kitchen also prepared 6 or 8 different moles (pronounce mol-ehs). The moles were traditional Mexican sauces of which the waiter had brought out samples so each could select an appropriate one for their dish. Some were green, some were brown, some were red and each somehow very similar to one another and yet vastly different. When it came time to chose the mole, some of us worried quite intently if it would indeed be the proper choice.

Many other events occurred including Meg trying to use Kate’s cigarette rolling machine outside on the porch, volunteering Justin for a sexual experiment, Meg trying to eat the friend grasshoppers, Johnny’s reaction to the huge funky pork covered in a dark mole, and one of the attendants, enchanted with Meg’s Spanish, giving her his phone number. But it was time to get on to the cabin after a quick stop at the grocery store for supplies.

Friday night at the cabin

Driving quite a ways into the dark Berkshire woods, we arrived at the trail up to the cabin. We all ported our stuff up the short trail under the light of our LED headlamps. The other Kevin had already arrived and was inside reading. We broke out essential supplies including the magnum of wine, a twelve pack of beer, a bottle of skunked fancy beer, a jug of beer from a brewery, cigarettes, a propane lantern, sweaters, sleeping bags and pads. We sat around the provided table, casually drinking and talking. The girls started getting tired and Johnny hadn’t had a good night of drinking for a while and asked if anyone wanted to join him in building a fire and tackling the jug of beer. I volunteered.

Johnny and I pulled up on the bench before the fire with the steady wind at our backs. Justin sat another table by the fire with his bottle of wine. Johnny and I slugged on the beer and smoked cigarettes and we all talked about the lay of the land and where to hike the next day and we threw logs on the flames. Justin made his way to his sleeping bag and Johnny and I finished the business of the jug and then Johnny retired.

I grabbed another beer from the 12 pack and sat alone on the bench by the dying fire. The sky absolutely clear and the stars vibrated out their yellows, reds and blues. Planning for the trip back in a cold, rainy and windy October, I had pictured rain, gray skies, cold and remembered the mild hypothermia I experience hiking with Jason and Justin in the white mountains more than a decade before. The night before we left, I had packed a hat and gloves and polypro thermal underwear and wool socks and my winter parka and an extra wool blanket to buffet my 20 degree sleeping bag. Instead, at midnight the air was most of sixty degrees, practically tropical for November in the Appalachians. I knocked down and spread out the fire the best I could and crawled into my bag and slept soundly, with the exception of Johnny’s dog Goober approaching too much like a member of the weasel family a few hours later.

Hanging in the breeze

I heard the stirrings Saturday morning as the people who went to bed before me pissed and made tea and oatmeal and eggs and whatever else people do in the morning. Snug in my bag and dreaming about something that was at the time fascinating to my subconscious, I drifted through the early morning. At some point later on, Jason arrived at my post and woke me up. Dude, it’s ten-thirty, time to get up! Holy Jesus, Jason was already there and he had already driven 2 or 3 hours that morning. In as much as I might be said to hop out of bed, I hopped out of bed and made my tea and smoked my cigarette and got myself outfitted for the hike, which, in keeping with my blustery November visions, consisted of jeans a t-shirt, a fleece vest with a polypro top and a rain/wind jacket in my bag. When I lived in Colorado, you might freeze your butt off hiking in late July, so, despite the absolutely balmy weather, I decided to prepare for the worst that November in Berkshires at 2500 feet could deliver. Justin rounded up the ingredients for his trail pizzas: pita bread, pepperonis, pizza sauce, and packets of cheddar cheese. The girls and the other Kevin went off to other things, promising to return with the fixings for dinner that evening.

Johnny, Jason, their dogs Izzy and Goober, Jason and I all headed off for a hike to a mountain right where Connecticut, Massachusetts and New York all converged at one point. The first part was a relatively steep ascent on a trail through the brush that overlooked the bright yellows and reds of the trees below. In varying degrees of fitness, we hiked along as the dogs scurried back and forth between the first hiker and the last. Although I was sweating bullets in my jeans and fleece vest, I was sure that they would become necessary as the winds would pick up closer to the top. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was in the sixties and the shone shone brightly through the dry air, but I left on my vest out laziness, stubbornness, or some perverted act of punishment.

While state boundaries are often at least semi-arbitrary, for some reason the marker where the threes states converged was an item of interest. The rubbed our hands on it and read the state names and wondered aloud about whether the actual boundary was there or somewhere else. The dogs marked the general area with their piss shots and I took some pictures. And even if our conduct was somewhat self-conscious or ironic, how intrigued we were with the rational idea of boundaries laid atop our physically congruous world.

Leaving the marker behind, it was a pleasant jaunt to the top of the mountain. Along the way, we saw a couple of hunters standing by a fork in the trail, one with a mustache and the other with a rock in his hand. They stood flat on their feet and their eyes darted a bit and a camouflage backpack rested on the ground. We continued on and soon came up behind a man who labored under a huge egg shaped backpack that was almost pointed at the top and sagged hopelessly at the bottom. He had a clean long brown ponytail and neither his shorts nor his boots were dirty enough to be those of a backpacker. We passed him and arrived at the top and wondered about the man with the saggy pack. Just as we started to put it together, another woman near us on the top started pulling a parasail out of a similarly shaped pack. It turned out that the ridge where we had hiked to was an opportune spot for parasailing and both the New England and New York parasailing clubs were meeting there that day for some thermodynamic fun.

As more and more parasailers arrived, we all moved out of the way and over to a spot where we could eat our lunch and watch the activity. Golden brown grass blanketed the top yielding to stunted pine and brush. A fog hung over the valley beneath us and Johnny pointed out that it was not fog, but rather pollution from the factories of the Midwest and all the cars and emissions from the Northeast corridor that became caught up in prevailing weather patterns and snaked its way through the mountains at certain favorable altitudes. He went on to talk about the degradation of lung capacity that had been measured in hikers climbing through this layer of noxious particles. I had been camping all my life, hiking around the mountains of New England since adolescence and nobody had ever told me that quaint fog that hangs over valleys was quite often pollution, especially if seen on a dry day such as that one. It really shifted my world view of the tangibility of pollution in places so remote from its origin.

We sat down in the grass and pulled out the fixings for trail pizzas and the dogs sniffed around and we watched the parasailers get ready. Many of them were from other countries and the man with the long brown ponytail shouted loudly to the Brazilian or the Russian various things about their ethnic character. He drank a red bull and smoked a cigarette and threw the butt in the rock cairn marking the mountain top. Johnny spotted this and yelled over for the guy to pack his trash out. The man joked that that was where they always put them. Some of the others apologized for the man, saying that when they go to dinner they make him eat in the car.

As the first one filled his sail with the warm air of a thermal rising up the ridge and floated precariously over the trees before making a steady ascent, Goober started barking and retreating toward the pines as if some massive and predatory bird had entered the sky. Johnny tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t relent and ran off into the cover of the trees.

We lazed for an hour periodically napping, eating, checking for ticks, and keeping tabs on Goober. Jason popped off for a quick poop in the woods at one point. Izzy scoured under every blade of grass for dropped crumbs. About a dozen people were gliding around on the thermals as Johnny coaxed Goober out of the woods and headed back down the trail. Along the way, we found that the hunters had made a fire where we found them and left it smouldering with a plastic ice tea bottle melting over the coals. Johnny scowled and picked up the bottle and covered their firepit with rocks and dirt and we made our way back to the cabin.

Saturday night at the cabin

Upon arriving back at the cabin, we took off our boots and made tea and speculated on when the girls and Kevin would show up with the ingredients for dinner. Jason went down to the car for a beer run. Johnny and Justin read some national geographics and I played with the dogs. I found a good long stick and went over to the stream where the land sloped down to on either side. From atop one bank I would hurl the stick like a javelin to the other side and watch as the dogs ran down one slope, through the stream and up the other to find the stick. They would then wrestle each other for the stick until I called them back and they would both carry it back down through the stream and back up to me so I could it throw it back to the other and start all over again. I did this until it got nearly dark. Then we collected firewood and got the fire going.

Jason returned with the beer and we pulled some out and put the rest down in the stream to chill. On relatively empty stomachs, we started to drink the beer and wait for the other to arrive. Hours went by and we drank beer. I started to think they thought we could fend for ourselves and decided to do something different. Around that time, a search helicopter started to circle above us, shining its spotlight down through the trees. Long after the girls had arrived, the helicopter continued to circle and circle.

They brought hamburger from Dom’s farm and we chopped garlic and patted out burgers and cooked them up with some soup Justin had. Meg and Kate had brought rum and coke and they quickly started catching up on the drinking work we had done while they were gone. We wolfed down the food and did some good sitting around the fire while the spotlight occasionally streaked across us.

Meg was planning on publishing a small literary magazine with an old short story of mine, a couple of her poems, and works from others down in the Manhattan area. We asked her to read some of her work and she reluctantly retrieved a few sheets of paper and read aloud three for us. We then passed around one of them and some of us read it aloud again so we could hear what it was like when different people read it. She told us some of the stories behind the words.

The night wore on people drunkenly started slipping off to bed. At one point, Jason said he saw a flare go off somewhere in the distance behind me. I thought it must be the people the helicopter was searching for. Others said it might be the rescuers telling the copter they had found what they were looking for and not to bother anymore. I decided I had to go down and make sure nobody was in need of help. Justin protested that he had heard three cars drive by since the flare and they would have been able to provide whatever service was required. I pictured people lost and injured in the night and out of the sight and earshot of cars and steadfast in my intoxicated maintained that I would bring Izzy with me and go. Probably out of fear that I would wander off the trail and require my own search party, Jason accompanied me and Izzy as we tromped through the mud and puddles left over from heavy rains weeks prior. We staggered down to the road and I shouted out … Is anybody out there? … Does anybody need help. There was no answer and we turned around and went back up the hill and had another beer and went to bed.

The long trail home

By the time I got up on Sunday, everyone but Jason and Justin had left. I made my tea and smoked one of Kate’s cigarettes, since me, Jason and Johnny had smoked all the ones I had brought for myself. I packed up what was left of my stuff and we hiked down to the car. Jason actually had to visit a worksite in a faraway place in northeastern Massachusetts that afternoon and needed to get on the road. It was Johnny’s mother’s birthday so him and Kate and Meg and Kevin went back to the farm so he could ride his bike out to see her. Justin and I drove out to a trailhead to take a hike up the other side of the valley. This side was thickly forested, the ground covered in leafs. We followed Izzy up the trail which wound through the trees and broke onto craggy rock near the top. We walked along the ridge, looking down farmland and land preserves and lakes and ponds and the roads that wound through it all. At a little nook in the trees, we sat down to eat up the last of the trail pizzas. We sat in the sun for a while and talked about the phenomenon of watching two people talking who are misunderstanding what the other is talking about, the strangeness of watching two people carry on a conversation that somehow moves forward without shared meaning. As we finished up the last of the pepperoni and cheese, we speculated on cholesterol actually does in our bodies, besides pile up in the arteries. As we started down, I found some animal crap that had lots of hair in it tried to imagine what predator had dropped it and we walked back down the hill.

From there, we went back to the farm to see the animals and say goodbye to Kate and Meg. Justin and Izzy and one of the farm dogs showed me around the property. We saw two female pigs with a bunch of sucklings. Justin pointed out that the mothers don’t care which piglets are their own and share their teats with all indiscriminately. We then walked on to cows and slid under the electric fence and went to visit the big tan one named Buttercup. As I stroked her face, she made a big groan and then farted and let out a massive pattie. That being done, we started back and ran into Meg and Kate with Goober by the pigs. Poor Goober accidentally bumped into the electric fence and yelped only to be attacked by the farm dog. The farm dog chased her a bit until Goober stopped, put her tail between her legs and did what Justin called, the “submissive piss”, which apparently is the lowest level a dog can sink to in the pack hierarchy, short of exile I would have guessed. After that, it was on to visit the baby cows that have a tendency to stick their nose in a human male’s crotch while looking for milk. And then onto the big highland cows that were kept across the street in a separate field. We walked over, were greeted by another farm’s dog who tried unsuccessfully to intimidate everyone one of us except Goober. These highland cows had long shaggy hair and large horns. They gave the impression they could mess you up if they wanted. Our assignment from Dom was to walk along the perimeter of the electric fence and make sure no stick or other debris was touching the wire. Justin and Kate walked one way and Meg and I the other met somewhere near the middle.

Justin and I were on our way to Great Barrington to get some food and visit a teahouse and get me some smokes. We tried to convince Meg and Kate to come along, but Meg was going back to New York soon, so they stayed behind to get ready to depart. We drove along into town and I got an ostrich burger at 44 Railroad St or something like that. And finally, we hit the road and headed back to Medfield, with me sleeping much of the way. I transferred my stuff from Justin’s truck into mine, stopped in and said hello to my parents for a brief moment before heading back up the hour and a half to Portsmouth. My mom had made me a baked ziti to bring back to my house, which was much appreciated. I also begged some of their good tea for bring back for the morning, as I had none at the house. I wearily drove home up the I95 and said goodnight to my Berkshire weekend.

Laurel Brauns @ Press Room

2005-09-29T12:26:00.000-04:00

Laurel Brauns is playing at the Press Room at 9 tonight. Great driving acoustic guitar with strong vocals.

Music Sample: Backroads

Year of Atonement

2005-09-27T22:47:00.000-04:00

Red Sox 2004

As the Sox have held first place most of the year with the Yankees in the rearview mirror, only to give up that lead to their arch rivals, it's been remarkable to see fans keeping their cool. I have yet to hear any suicide threats when Schilling blows a game, Manny calls in sick, or Francona puts in a rookie in the 8th inning. I don't see the masses sporting the B caps or hear random tales of agony on every corner the day after a big loss.

While it may be a bit insensitive to compare the plight of the pre-2004 Sox fans to that of those affected by the Great Depression, the analogy of the relief brought about by FDR's federal spending programs to that of a World Series to some fans who actually endured the better part of an 86 year drought might hold weight on the scales of total human agony.

I have to admit there was a part in the movie Seabiscuit that choked me up, sitting right there in the movie theather beside my younger brothers. As those who saw this, in my opinion, great starter and horrible finisher of a movie, remember the jockey is a character who parent's for all intents and purposes sold him off during the Depression for a small chunk of change, the hope that he might do better with the horsemen, and the knowledge that there was little better they could do for him. As the economic conditions deteriorate, the narrative builds up a light of hope for desperate Americans symbolized by Seabiscuit and embodied by FDR. Someone named Gary North summarized the way I observed it:

At one point, the narrator's voice returns and narrates a series of ... photographs of people employed by the New Deal's tax-funded make-work projects. McCullough identifies this as relief, and it came with many names, he says: CCC, WPA, etc. Relief, he says, demonstrated for the first time in a long time that "someone cared."

Realizing full well that getting folks back to work in the 30's was true Relief, and this something quite trivial, it has been amazing to see the effects of 2004. I'd spent years sitting with my father watching games and hoping he wouldn't have a heart attack or a stroke. There was really fury there. This year, I've hardly heard anything from him that resembles trauma.

In summary, it's been great to see what was once a rampent fever across New England become a healthy interest. I'd love to see them get back in the playoffs this year. Another World Series would be great. But if the Yanks or Indians shut the Sox out this year, grumbles instead of screams will be a welcome change from the three decades I've known.

That being said, Go Sox.

Bits and Pieces

2005-09-27T21:56:00.000-04:00

Chipolte is for Lovers
- Dos Amigos reported to have a new and delicious chipolte sauce that ups the ante in the Coco's war. A die-hard Coco's fan the aqua negra steak burrito with the new sauce might be better than the steak burrito at Cocos. In another jab, an anononymous inside source reportely said about Coco's "if you want to eat greasy food, then go there." I have multiple reporters covering the story on an almost daily basis.

A Farewell to Claws

2005-09-19T21:46:00.000-04:00

Finally had the old lobster boil on Saturday night. I had one last year in Kittery Point when my Scottish-Californian friends visited on their travels around the country. This year we did at our house in Portsmouth. Here's the recipe (feeds 5 carnivores and one vegetarian):

Five 2 pound hard-shell Maine lobsters
2 pounds of clean Sanders mussels
12 ears of corn from the farmers market
10 twice baked potatoes with sharp cheddar, sour cream, chives, garlic, butter and a bit of hot sauce
Garden tomatoes
Case of assorted smuttynose beers, 30 pack of PBR, bottle of wine.
1.5 pounds of melted butter
Bag of lemons
1 $4 voice changing play megaphone to make alien noises with
2 female dogs, one that terrorizes the other to the point of chronic mental trauma

Made for quite the feast. Followed by a nightcap at the Coat and some of us even moved on to a random after hours party.

Tonight, a housemate and I ate the still still kickin' little neck clams that we didn't have space to include on Saturday.

Farewell, Summer of 2005.

Commuting Comunity

2005-09-15T13:27:00.000-04:00

Recently, I've been commuting to Portland several times a week to do work for my main client. Occasionally, I also travel south of Boston to visit another client. I started thinking about where the people I know in Portsmouth work and few of them work in town:

- One housemate and his girlfriend commute to a small town near Exeter.
- My other housemate commutes to Manchester.
- One friend builds houses and commutes to the suburban Boston area.
- Another runs an environmental cleanup service and drives all over the country for her livelihood.
- Another commutes only to Dover, but her company in turn drives all over New Hampshire and Massachusetts to clean up environmental hazards.
- One who moved in order to find better work used to commute to Boston to do non-profit work.
- A former housemate commuted to Concord to do non-profit work.
- Another flies all around the country most weeks doing sales.
- A couple others make a short trip to Dover for other environmental/energy concerns.
- Another commutes somewhere in Mass for an education company.

The people I know that actually work here are:
- a QA engineer who works the overnight shift for a company that lays fiber across oceans
- a school teacher
- a waitress
- shop keeper

With the price of gas being what it is, I wonder what the impact on commuting communities around the country will be.

Family Style

2005-09-12T00:03:00.000-04:00

As fall approaches and the appetite kicks into higher gear, I've been doing more grocery shopping and cooking at home. On my most recent trip, I decided to buy a good size roast beef and a bag of potatoes to cook up for Sunday dinner like my parents always did when we were kids.

One of my housemates made the potatoes, I made the roast beef and a friend brought over the asparagus and wine. While the dog was tortured by all the delicious aromas, the four of us made short work of about 3.5 pounds of beef, 8 good sized potatoes, 1.5 sticks of butter, 1.5 cups of cream, and plenty of garlic, salt, pepper, lemon and olive oil. Never too early to get a jump on getting that extra layer of winter fat.

Next weekend, a lobster boil to send out the summer with a bang.

Nobody Home?

2005-09-09T21:21:00.000-04:00

If anyone is still reading, sorry for the dearth of posting ... my main client boosted my budget a couple weeks ago and I've been doing a lot more work and having to drive up to Portland a few times a week. Am hoping to do something postworthy in Porstmouth this weekend.

Get a Job: Red Bull Team Manager

2005-08-24T20:20:00.000-04:00

This week's featured job is for the Red Bull Team Manager here in Portsmouth

Some of the critical details:

Full Time
Unspecified Salary
2-5 years experience, with a BA desired
Exceptional Benefits program, including Medical, Dental, Vision, 401K, Long and Short-Term Disability, and Tuition Assistance. We pay all premiums.
"You've seen [The Mobile Energy Team] cruising around in the cool car with the can on top. They're the ones who find people in need of ENERGY, offer them a Red Bull, explain the product benefits and, hopefully, create new Red Bull believers. Your strong interpersonal skills will come in handy because we'll need you to recruit, motivate and train new team members."

You'll be climbing the corporate ladder as if you have "Wiiiings!" Apply at from the link above.

Tags: Portsmouth
Jobs Red Bull

Portsmouth Naval Yard to remain open

2005-08-24T17:08:00.000-04:00

Holy Crap ... everyone I talked to said the closing was a foregone conclusion, but the Defense bigwigs are keeping the Portsmouth Naval Yard open.

Congratulations to all the employees and people who fought hard to keep it here.

Tags: Portsmouth, NH Portsmouth Naval Yard

Barone's Steak Shack

2005-08-24T16:36:00.000-04:00

The best steak and cheese around has to be Barone's. They have good quality steak, red and green peppers, and 7 kinds of cheese (cheddar, swiss, american, provolone, mozzarella, nacho, and cheez wiz). It's just a little shack on the side of the road with a parking lot and a couple picnic tables so it's probably best to go before it gets cold or take it to go. I paid about $7 for a large with peppers and onions. Other variations include the Jalepeno Nacho Cheesesteak and The Spicemaster. They also have chicken steaks (including Buffalo Chicken Steak with Blue Cheese), italian sausage, hamburgers, and hot dogs. Leave your vegetarian friends at home because there is nothing but meat here.

The address is 190 Lafayette Rd, just over the line in Rye on Route 1.

They're currently open 11-9pm 7 days a week.

Tags: Portsmouth, NHTags: Barone's Steak ShackTags: Rye, NH

Spirit of Sheehan visits Portsmouth

2005-08-18T15:31:00.000-04:00

According to an article in the Portsmouth Herald, more than 100 people gathered at Market Square, here in Portsmouth, to give support to Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a lost soldier in Iraq. It's not surprising that such an event would happen here, especially given the Friday peace vigils that were being led weekly and the virtual cacophony of honking when cars were passing Kerry supporters with signs just before the election.

Get a Job

2005-08-17T20:21:00.000-04:00

I've decided to feature a weekly local Portsmouth job that is notable for some reason. Today's comes from seacoastcareers.com and is just plain cute ... anybody out there know how to stop a food fight dead in it's tracks?

Welcome Owen

2005-08-17T19:10:00.000-04:00

Nothing to do with Portsmouth, but someone in my group of extended friends has finally become a parent. Owen will be spending at least the first few years of life in NJ, about half an hour from NYC, but miraculously has already spoken his first words: "Go Red Sox!". In the father's words, he looks like a garden gnome. Welcome to the world little gnome.

Game Night @ Stockpot

2005-08-15T18:20:00.000-04:00

Every Monday night is game night at the Stockpot with host extraordinaire, Jason Probert. They offer the Red Sox game, Scrabble, Cribbage, $2 pints, and half-price appetizers between 10:30 and 11:30. All in a smokefree environment.
Tags: Portsmouth, NH Portsmouth

Portsmouth Shopping, Eating, & Relaxing

2005-08-12T15:59:00.000-04:00

Searching on Technorati for Portsmouth, I found a new Portsmouth, NH blog. Read well done reviews of local establishments (Annabelle's and the Juicery so far), complete with a ratings system. It also has a nice simple design and a strong focus. Check it out at portsmouthnh.blogspot.com.
Tags: Portsmouth, NH

Water Ways

2005-08-11T23:10:00.000-04:00

Part one of an essay on Portsmouth's relation to the water

Not a Beach Town

Equidistant from Portsmouth are York Beach to the north and Hampton Beach to the south (11 miles each according to Google Maps). Between them can also be found the smaller and closer beaches of Seapoint in Kittery, Great Island Common in Newcastle, and Jenness Beach in Rye. The Portsmouth Chamber of Commerce lists no fewer than ten beach attractions in its visitor information page of parks and beaches. For all those beaches around and the actual Atlantic being under four miles away, Portsmouth is not a very beachy town. People are not walking around town in bathing suits and towels. While it can be seen, it is not often that a car full of kids with boogie boards unload in the neighborhood. Unless you’re a surfer, the beach seem to be more a place to bring your dog in the evening or have a romantic getaway under the moon on a summer night.
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One of the big reasons for the lack of beachgoing by the people of Portsmouth is likely the water temperatures. In the map on the picture to the right, it shows that on August 11th the water temperatures below the Cape are solidly in the seventies (yellow) while those above the Cape are in the low 60s (green). While the Ocean Circulation Conveyer Belt ( 2.8 MB downloadable animation) brings warm water up from the equator on the North American side of the Atlantic and cold down the European, it takes an inconvenient detour around the Gulf of Maine. Additionally, according to an article written by Tom Bell of MaineToday.com the flow of the great conveyer belt is blocked by Georges Bank, which is a plateau that rises off the seafloor. Bell goes on to point out that the the moon and the major differences between high and low tide in the Gulf of Maine create a churning action which brings cold water from the deep to mix with the warm water on the surface. So thanks to the Georges Bank and those famous tide changes, the water around here is unlikely to move much above a chilling sixty degrees.

Another possible deterrent for the people of Portsmouth to hit the beach is the ambiance and/or psychological distance of the bigger beaches with amenities that accommodate a day at the beach, i.e. York and Hampton. Driving along the coast in Hampton, the feeling that it has seen better days is hard to escape. The wall protecting the road from the ocean is dirty grey, crumbling and obtrusive. One the ocean side of the wall a thick ring of small boulders prevents easy access to the sand so that, at high tide, there is hardly any sandy beach there to enjoy. There are drainage pipes that run foul looking water out to the sea. And the strip mall of arcades and tee-shirt shops seems to lack a basic sense of taste.

One might blame the condition of Hampton Beach on the cold water and it's damping effect on high-end tourism. Possibly, New Hampshire’s lack of state income tax could be at fault. After all, with such a small stretch of coastline, one might think another state would prize it’s beach and make sure it is presentable. Then again, perhaps it is a problem of geography.

According to a report commissioned by the Town of Hampton and New Hampshire’s Department of Resources and Economic Development the beach originally was leased and developed by the Hampton Beach Improvement Company (HBIC). At first, in the late 1800's, an attractive community was built up for urban dwellers escaping from the city. However, growth is said to have been mismanaged, allowing every available plot to be filled, regardless of the value that construction brought aesthetically and economically to the community. During the Great Depression, the State of New Hampshire became guardian of the beaches and made improvements including a boardwalk. However, the tourism market "shifted” over time and further decline of the area ensued.

What was this shift in the tourism market? One event that forever changed the shape of tourism on the coastal North East was the development of Interstate 95, under the Eisenhower Administration. The Interstate system would eventually connect from Maine to Florida as one enormous superhighway, not only diverting traffic from Route 1, but also allowing people to commute to commercial centers from much greater distances. According to Peter Evans Randall’s Hampton: A Century Beach of Town and Beach, after World War II, the State was bent on creating a “seacoast turnpike” and the New Hampshire Turnpike Authority was created. The plan was opposed by Hampton businesses speculating that it would cut into their revenues. In the late Forties, the toll highway was built, although for some time there was no Massachusetts highway to connect it with and it dumped back onto Route 1 in Salisbury.

After the highway was built, bypassing Route 1 and Hampton, local businesses reported a 40% decline in revenue the first Fourth of July weekend it was open in 1950. However, by 1963, the traffic back up above pre-I95 levels and the clogging the route and threatening business. The new traffic, however, was attributed not to tourism but to a growing local population. Not only was the local population growing because of the greater ease of commuting, but also because people were starting to take advantage of the cheap rents offered by rental managers. From September through April, the low rents attracted a whole new population who in turn enrolled their children in the schools, further establishing the residential base. In the aftermath of the highway, Hampton Beach had converted from an economy dependent on tourism to one equally reliant on the residents and businesses serving those residents, leaving only a shadow of original community and vision.

York Beach on the other hand has some of the taste that Hampton is lacking, although the general state of the housing along the beaches also suggests there were better days. While the roadside is crowded, there isn’t the line of t-shirt shops and arcades. Their beach also has a bit more sand and there is no oppressive seawall. For one reason or another though, Portsmouth folk don’t seem to like to cross the bridge into Maine. People will move from Portsmouth to Kittery, expecting that their friends will occasionally make the jaunt out their house and be wrong. Despite the somewhat arbitrary boundary of states, by the time you get to Kittery Point, you might as well be in northern Maine. Go into Frisbee's Market and listen to how folks talk—it’s not what you hear in Provisions.

______________

Part II coming soon ...

Tags:Portsmouth, NH

Sunday Karaoke @ Daniel St.

2005-08-09T16:14:00.000-04:00

For a couple people I know, it has been a tradition to have Sunday brunch at Molly Malone's, nap in the afternoon and then hit the Daniel Street Tavern at night for Keroke. I decided to go down a couple Sundays ago and see what all the buzz was about.
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First, some of the things D-Street is famous for:

$2 Pabst Blue Ribbons in the 16 oz can
Starts serving early in the morning (around 7?)
No hard alcohol
A tougher crowd than the average Portsmouth hangout
Last call happens at the last legally allowed time, which most other places won't wait for
Motorcycles parked out front

So I went down with a couple of the Molly's brunch gang around 10 pm. The place was packed and the karaoke had already started. Most of the crowd looked fairly sauced. There were lots of tatoos and dyed hair and ripped clothing. A group of serious-looking men stood around the pool table, tucked in a nook between the bar and the karaoke "stage". There was a television rolling ESPN highlights above them. My housemate picked up a round of drinks for $9 and got the bell rung for leaving a good tip.

On stage, a sultry girl in a pink top was casually singing YOU’RE MAKIN ME HIGH by Toni Braxton. More people started coming in and virtually everywhere you tried to stand was in someone's way of where they wanted to get. More of the Press Room-type crowd started showing up and a circle of not quite preppy 30 year olds formed an inner circle in the more punk crowd around them.

One of the highlights of the night was when a woman named Allegra, a big beautiful black woman with an equally beautiful voice, took the stage. She came right off stage into the crowd and belted out her song, only stopping to look at the lyrics on the TV occasionally. She interacted with everybody, getting some to sing along. I'm told she is a celebrity there and can be seen on any given Sunday night.

The other was a man singing a Bruce Springsteen song. He also came off the stage. He was deadly serious and was practically screaming the chorus into the mike. You got the sense he maybe worked 50 miles from home and had a lot of time to sing in the car.

At the end of the night, one of the bartenders came up on stage and reminded everyone not to drink and drive. For those trying to hold on to it just as long as they could, another weekend was over.

Barter Creek, Kittery Point

2005-08-09T13:44:00.000-04:00

On the backside of Fort McClary Park in Kittery Point is a little pennisula that sticks out into Barters Creek. You can park on Crockett Neck Road, just before the bridge and take the trail back to the point. The creek is home to blue herons, comerants, terns, egrets, as well as striped bass, mussels, and lobsters. Sunday morning, I took my roomate and his girlfriend over there to see the sunrise and swim.

What God would like to say

2005-08-06T00:04:00.000-04:00

According to Google Talk, here is what God would like to say:

that I was false of heart, Though absence seem d my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart. As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my life. I. must master it, as I must master my life. Without me, is a movie that will make you Healthy for Life by Mark Hyman, Mark Liponis, Mark Liponis September, did did did The laundry. Oh, what fun Talk to you soon. TTYT Talk To You Tomorrow. TYCLO Turn Your CAPS LOCK OFF! Quit Shouting! tyvm Thank You Very much for your kind words! and. for your support. of the Annual Fund Is a yearly campaign, that raises donations for the food bank. s programs and projects are designed to provide a basic understanding of the physiology of the Joints: Vol. The did did did part, that is, who is the Lord of the Rings The Fellowship of the Ring. the Two Towers and the Return of the King, The trial of the century� The Story of the baby on the bus goes. beep, Beep! beep beep, beep All day long. The hens go cluck- cluck� All day long The operators at this point in time, is a book that is sufficiently worn that its only merit is as a Reading Copy because it does have a few limitations.

Give the site a try and see what prophecies you find.

Portsmouth TV

2005-08-04T17:03:00.000-04:00

Some number of months back, a crew of folks from Portsmouth, along with some from the Boston area and LA shot a TV pilot in Portsmouth. It was titled "Liberty Square". Lots of local businesses contributed food, shooting locations, and office space.

The Portsmouth Herald covered the story.

Picasa & Flickr

2005-08-04T14:56:00.000-04:00

While Google's Picasa is a great desktop solution for organizing and tagging your pictures, new Flickr does all that plus allows you to browse and search for other's photos. Judging by their most popular searches, it looks like a lot folks like to see wedding photos. Or, try a search for Portsmouth, NH.

Leary Field Dogpark

2005-08-04T13:35:00.001-04:00

Simba's used to Mike getting up probably around 6 or so, so waiting for me to emerge at 9:30 must have been hard. She was so happy to see me and so eager to go outside I thought she had to pee desperately. Nope, just wanted to get out. So I give her breakfast and take care of my own morning activities. She was ancy to play and taunting me with the big stuffed green bone with the dual squeakers, so I took her over to the dog park at Leary Field to work off some steam.
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We arrived at lunch hour and lots of other dog/person teams were showing up. There was a big white husky, a group of four lapdogs, a senior lab who didn't stray far from his senior owner, and then a couple boxers. I didn't take her off the leash until I was sure she wasn't going to try to kill anything. Simba's owner and girlfriend team have been doing a great job getting her socialized.

Right after all the dogs made their respective poops, it was time for the pack to sprint laps around the park. Simba took a particular interest in the big white husky (they would have such cute kids). Then it was time for water and sorting out the pack hierarchy. Simba seemed to clearly know the big white husky was her daddy, but she alpha ambitions over the boxers. They jumped and whirled and play-bit and growled and slobbered and rolled and barked. The boxers sorta teamed up on her and ended up showing her what's what. She was covered in slober and dirt.

I did a little more of the hob-nobbing with other dog owners, but felt a bit hypocritical as I wasn't really one.After about 20 minutes of wrestling with the boxers, it was time to go. I washed her off, brought her home and gave her a pork chop shaped treat. Now she is dead asleep on the floor with the fan blowing on her. What a life.

Dog Sitting

2005-08-04T01:57:00.000-04:00

My housemate went off to the Cape today and asked me to take care of his dog; I love dogs and animals in general so I happily agreed. I had an Irish Setter and then a Basset Hound growing up, but I'd forgotten how much attention they require. What follows is a log of my time with Simba so far.
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- Last night, housemate went to a Red Sox game and suggested Sim might like it if I took her for a walk. I took her around the block at 10:30 or so and somehow figured that she wouldn't poop. Naturally, she pooped and I didn't have a bag, so I committed a crime against humanity and left it on the sidewalk, a block and a half from our house.

- Wake up this morning and take her out in the yard to see if she has to pee. Nothing really. Mike calls in the early afternoon and explains her feeding schedule. I feed her and take her for a walk, this time equipped with a poop bag. She poops in the same spot as last night, but last night's poop seems to be gone, so I can't get my Poop Karma back by retrieving the previous digger.

- Back at the house I work for a couple hours and Simba wants to play. She brings over the big green stuffed bone with dual squeakers. We play fetch for a while.

- Couple more hours of work and then it's time for a quick jaunt to the beach to get her tired. Not having much gas in the tank and wanting to get back to finish up work, I head for Newcastle beach. I go over the bridges to Newcastle and realize I don't know where the beach actually is. I had seen the sign for the Fort and housemate's girlfriend had spoken of taking Simba there. I eventually head there and then see the sign that they close at 4pm.

- The "no gas" light hasn't come on in my car yet, so I decide to head for the closest beach in Rye. Simba quickly pees outside my car and a guy watching the sunset seems to grumble. I have her on the leash and she beelines for the line where the wet and dry sand meet and quickly takes a big poop. I scooped it up in the bag I had brought. On the one hand, I was happy to get the pooping out of the way so we could play on the beach. On the other, I realized there was no trash around and I had to carry the bag around with me for the rest of the time.

- Down the beach a bit, a golden retrieverish puppy is playing with it's captors. They come over for introductions. I tell them that Simba is hit or miss with other dogs and to proceed with caution. It was my first experience of meeting other people solely based on the fact that we both have dogs. We probably wouldn't have given each other the time of day otherwise. The dogs get on fine enough and we part ways after they sniff each other's butts and we talk about how old they are and how many other dogs they'd met and all that.

- Having passed the "I'm not going to kill the other dog on the beach test", Simba is allowed off the leash. She darts off like a greyhound and pretends not to hear me when I call her back. She stops for a moment to poop again. Having only brought one bag, I'm dismayed. Would a hardcore poop collector somehow untie the bag and scoop up the second poop along with the first? When I was a kid, dogs pooped everywhere and nobody picked them up and we liked it. There were poops turned white baking in the sun on every patch of grass. I decided to do the old cover it with sand trick and hope a big wave washed it away before an innocent bystander sat in it.

- Simba continues running on and ignoring me, scaring me to death that she will run out into the street and be killed or maimed, not only devasting me and the owner, but also exposing me as an inadequate dogsitter. "You never take a dog off the leash the first time!" I could hear every dogowner screaming at me. She stopped for a third poop and I nabbed her by the collar and reattached her leash and kicked some more sand on her latest creation.

- We walk all over the beach and she poops twice more. I'm convinced at this point the bad karma from leaving the poop in my neighborhood the night before is catching up with me. What does a hardcore poop cleaner-up do in this scenario?

- Eventually, we head back to the car and go home. She drinks lots of water and goes off for a nap.

- Around 11, I take her for another walk around the block. Fortunately, she passes the scene of the previous night's crime and we make it home without incident. I feed her and make myself a snack and she watches with sad eyes as I eat my food.

All that being said was only to show how much effort goes into taking care of a dog. It has been a great pleasure to be her provider today and her excitement every time we do something together is truly uplifting. I can't wait for my own.

Art for People

2005-08-03T15:09:00.000-04:00

Local Portsmouth artist, Melissa Rico , will be showing some work in the Art 4 People Festival in Enfield, Connecticut on the weekend of August 19th-21st.

(Image resides on art4people.net and is the intellectual property of Melissa Rico.)

Population Portsmouth

2005-08-01T17:06:00.000-04:00

Some of us have been debating what the population of Portsmouth is. Well, according to city-data.com's statistics, the answer is 21,558 (as of 2000). Some other interesting tidbits garnered from their site:

93% white folks
38.7 median age
$45500 median household income

For a town of 20-30,000 we sure have a lot of restaurants, coffee shops, bars, salons, and art galleries. I'd be curious to know what population we are serving including the surrounding areas and tourists.

Trip to Fenway

2005-07-31T16:00:00.000-04:00

My brother had bought four tickets to Friday night's Red Sox game against the Twins. They were bleacher seats that he had procured via a Boston engineering society that he was a part of when he lived up there. So he flew up from NYC, my parents drove in from there Boston suburb town, and I drove down from Portsmouth.

I left on Friday at about 3:30 in the afternoon. Shortly after getting on I95, I hit the traffic for the Hampton toll. It was backed up for four miles and took me about an hour to get through. I had been going to meet my parents at their place and drive in, but the traffic put me too far back. On a lark, I decided to come in on Comm Ave and it worked out great. No traffic at all and I found free parking about a quarter mile from Kenmore Square. Every other street looked mobbed, so I guess I got lucky.
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We were meeting at the Cask and Flagon and I had arrived early so I decided to take a walk up the street to kill the half hour or so until my brother and parents were due to arrive. I sat on the grass outside a shopping plaza and just watched the people walk by. Soon after, an army of bicycle riders came down the street, blowing whistles and shouting at the cars in the other lane that they should bike instead and get where they're going faster. Some were pretty militant in their shouting, while others were happy to just to ride along. When that was over, I went over to the meeting spot and we assembled and went on in.

The seats in the bleachers were about as good as they get up there. The talk of the town as the Red Sox approached the trading deadline was Manny Ramirez. Every year, Manny does something bizarre. This year, he requested and trade and refused to play in a game where he was badly needed. He also disappeared into a door in the Green Monster when the pitching coach came out to chat with the pitcher and nearly missed being on the field for the next pitch. Anyway, he decided to play the night we were there and I had the feeling that we would be watching his last game in a Sox uniform.

The game was a great one to watch with a pitching duel going on for the first six innings and then opening up into a string of hitting thereafter. John Olerud, the backup first basemen, hit a grand slam to seal the deal.

The bleachers were rather subdued that night compared to their reputation. We later figured that the reason was that all the fans in our section had also bought their tickets from the engineering society. We did in fact over hear multiple conversations about engineering from various people around us.

The tickets were $23 and the parking was free. You can always find an extra ticket for pretty close to face value if you look around a bit. Take an evening sometime and go see the 2005 World Series Champs. Just watch out for the Hampton toll.

Red Sox

2005-07-29T15:31:00.000-04:00

Meeting brother who's coming up from New York for Red Sox game. See ya next week.

Have you heard of social bookmarking?

Black Bear vs. Starbucks

2005-07-28T20:59:00.000-04:00

Check out this story of how the folks at the Blackbear have been in litigation with Starbucks over naming a coffee roast Charbucks. What a fight.

http://www.blackbearcoffee.com/Starbucks/Main_Page.htm

Green Brew

2005-07-28T12:40:00.000-04:00

Want a healthier way to take that edge off? Tea contains theanine which has been studied for its anti-anxiety (anxiolytic) properties. It also has been shown to help fight against cancer. The relaxation effect comes from its binding to the GABA receptors in the brain, which is also what sedatives such as valium and xanax do. Green tea has more readily available theanine, but it is also present in black tea. Some researchers believe that the theanine in tea mitigates the caffeine buzz we get from tea verses that of coffee.

In searching for the best brew, I have found Rishi Jasmine Pearl to be the best. The Black Bear (aka the Den) has it on hand for purchase by the cup or by the canister. It is quite pricey at $13.50 for a canister, but a small cup is only $1.50. Breaking New Grounds also has Dragonwell Green Tea which is quite good.

New Eats at Press Room

2005-07-27T22:09:00.000-04:00

The Press Room recently expanded it's menu, adding a more healthy (for pub food) and diverse choices. I like the Mediterrean Steak Tip Salad with spinach, romaine, feta, artichokes, roasted red peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers and topped with marinated steak. Not bad for $10.

Google gets personal

2005-07-27T16:27:00.000-04:00

If you haven't switched to Google's personalized page for news, quotes, and RSS feeds, you probably will soon. Check it out at google.com/ig

If you want to get Portsmouth Pages in RSS through Google you can enter this link: http://portsmouthpages.blogspot.com/atom.xml

Google is really going places since the IPO, between Gmail, Orkut, Picassa, Hello, Blogspot, Google Maps they are shaping the new web.

Review of Tim Emerson @ Red Door

2005-07-27T16:06:00.000-04:00

My housemate's girlfriend tipped me off about Tim playing at the Red Door. I went down at 7:30 and was the first one there besides Cresta (the manager), Tim (the musician) and a girl talking on her cellphone by the window. For a moment, I thought I would be getting a private showing, but people started showing up. It was a hip, young crowd with tall skinny guys wearing thrift shop clothes and girls in walking the line between hippy and chic.

Tim was dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt with black glasses and black hair. The wall behind him was black, so it gave the illusion that only his face and arms were there. I'd never heard him play before, so when he started and his vocals were so full of reverb, I thought it had been an accident. But then I could tell he was working with it as he ratched up the energy and moved into a strong falsetto. At he reached the peak of his first song, his body and head and guitar were shaking along with the music. His guitar playing was magnificent and he said he rarely uses a pick, but that his hands start to hurt if he plays that long without one. At one point, he left the stage abrubtly after a song and came back a few minutes later saying that his thumb had been broken for a while and had started to hurt. His hipster friends gave him the worlds smallest violin treatment.

To paint with too broad a brush, I describe him as Radiohead meets Bjork meets Jeff Buckley. In Bjork's movie, Dancer in the Dark there is a scene where she has gone blind and takes off her glasses by a railroad track, because they no longer do anything for her. Tim's lyrics were so full of natural imagery, I could almost see him standing in that scene with her, writhing with emotion as she sang a sort of swan song.

I'd see him again and his fans make it all the more worthwhile.

2005-07-27T15:46:00.000-04:00

Dos Amigos vs. Loco Coco

2005-07-26T17:23:00.000-04:00

When Dos Amigos came to town, it was the undisputed taco/burrito champ in Portsmouth. Now with Loco Coco over the bridge, their empire is crumbling. Here's my take:

Dos: good for cheap easy tacos. The marinated steak (aqua negra?) is a steal for $2.50 It's open till 11 on school nights and later I think on Th-Sa

Loco: need an $8 burrito to die for? Take the ride over the bridge. Kinda strange hours ... closed Sunday and also from 3-4 (?) and closes at 9 on the button at night.

I think there's room for both.

A Portsmouth Morning (June 14, 2005)

2005-07-26T16:40:00.000-04:00

I had a bout of insomnia back near the solstice and decided to go out and watch Portsmouth wake up and take some pictures with my little digicam.

Walking into Town

It was gray and drizzly that morning, but the cold damp felt good after a hot and humid day. For some reason, I felt like a tourist. I remembered walking into Dublin with a former girlfriend almost exactly seven years ago. We had taken the ferry over from Wales and I hadn’t slept that night either. It was also damp and gray and rainy and we went into town with our packs and had a breakfast of tea and real bacon and home fries at a table overlooking one of the city streets. We were exhausted and excited.

Everything on the way into Portsmouth looked fresh and foreign. I stopped in front of the junior high school and noticed the blossoming trees and dark red bricks and the name engraved in stone. I don’t think I had even known what kind of school it was until then, after having walked past it every day. Looking across a tidal pool, through the haze, I looked at the city offices, perched on a hill, overlooking the city. In the municipal lot, about a quarter mile from the central square, there was a beautiful old BMW parked. I had seen it on the back of a tow truck weeks earlier and the owner, a 20 something guy, talking about how he had always wanted it.
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It was just before 6 and people were starting to pull into the lot and scurry off to their jobs. One girl I recognized as an employee at one of the coffee shops. I stopped at the Citizens Bank ATM and took out some cash.

Memorial Bridge

Memorial Bridge is where Route 1 crosses over the Piscataqua River from New Hampshire into Maine. It is dedicated to New Hampshire’s war veterans. When I had first come to Portsmouth a couple years earlier, after moving back east from Boulder, one of the first things I had done was walk over the bridge into Maine one afternoon. It was pouring rain that day, but I was somehow enthralled with the idea of walking to Maine.

I had decided to walk down to the river and the bridge first that morning as I wanted to see it at dawn and would be spending a bit of time in town afterward. The bridge allows tall ships through not by drawing the road apart and up, but rather by lifting the middle section straight up. When it is up, a piece of Route 1 is raised a hundred feet over the river. It is one of the last of its kind (beside the one a half mile up the river carrying across Route 1 Bypass traffic).

Looking out over the water, I saw dozens of gulls circling over one spot. The sea bass were feeding on bait fish and the birds were there to pick up the scraps. Two small fishing boats had closed in on the area and were casting into the school of hungry fish. I walked over into Maine, crossed over the road and started back to New Hampshire. Along the way, I passed one of the bridge operators, wearing an orange roadworker’s vest. A storm was coming and the wind was blowing and he gave me a queer look and started singing “Here it comes”, from a Rolling Stones song. I remembered that the next line was something about a 19th nervous breakdown and I had this weird feeling that he was not talking about the storm, but rather some impending fallout coming at me. I had a tendency to listen to prophetic statements from quirky people as if they were destiny’s messengers or something. Not long before, a crazy old man had told me I’d die of pneumonia as I walked through a door out of the rain.

Bow Street

The buildings of Bow Street abut the river. The street is home to a number of bars, restaurants, clothing shops, a palm reading operation, and an ice cream stand. The bars have decks in the back that overlook the water and draw in locals and tourists alike in the summer.

The Stockpot is a bar where I spent a fair bit of time. There were large windows with great views, cheap pub food and two dollar pints on Mondays. Like the gold mining operations in the 1800s that not only employed its workers, but also sold them picks and food and lodging, the Stockpot was a self-sustaining organism. The staff also drank there, ate there, lived together, and dated each other. The upstairs was setup somewhat like a living room and you would always see a few of the waitresses or off-duty bartenders sitting on the couch, smoking and chatting. The regulars were salty and foul-mouthed and drank PBR and cheap whiskey. Until recently, patrons could smoke there and a perpetual cloud hung over the bar counter.

Ceres Street

Centuries ago, the buildings on Ceres Street were the tallest in the country, a local once told me. Aside from that dubious claim, the most notable place on this street is Lindberg’s Crossing, a fantastic restaurant and wine bar. Another setting with great views of the river, you can enjoy a great glass of wine in the bar or feast on a hearty steak or seared tuna in the vintage New England dining room.

I once met one of the founders while out in town one night. He had been a finish carpenter up in North Conway and came down to Portsmouth one weekend. He saw the space on Ceres St and decided he had to restore and start a restaurant there. Together with a business partner, they built one of the most renowned restaurants around, starting as a simple steak house and gradually moving into fine wine and gourmet dishes.

Daniel Street

Daniel Street is home to the most local establishments in town. The Daniel St. Tavern is an old biker bar—the only place in town one might be a bit scared to walk into. A Turkish guy runs a little coffee shop down the street. The post office is across from there. Colby’s is a good place to read the paper and eat breakfast.

Emilio’s is a little known luncheon spot featuring homemade Italian dishes. There is hardly a sign to identify the place and Emilio doctored the “Open” sign to read “Yes, we’re closed” and “Sorry, we’re open.” Emilio is the proprietor and his wife does the cooking. Emilio is nearing retirement and it is always a crapshoot whether he’ll open on any given day. Sometimes he’ll take weeks off without any notice; it’s always best to have a backup plan when considering eating there. Emilio also expects his customers to chat with him. Often the conversation revolves around one of his social critiques. For example, he might start off saying, “Everyone’s always asking what kind of potatoes you have. They don’t realize they’re eating last year’s potatoes. They keep them in a silo all winter.” If you don’t really know what he’s talking about, he’ll just repeat it, as if to clarify.

Market Square

Congress St., Market St., and Daniel St. all join at Market Square. The primary feature is a café called “Breaking New Grounds” where locals and tourists gather together to drink coffee and tea, eat gourmet deserts, read and browse the internet over the wireless connection being broadcast there. It opens at 6:30 am and closes at 10 on weekdays and 11 on weekend nights. For those who don’t frequent bars, it is really the only other place in town to hang out after dark.

As I came to the café around 7 am, it had started raining. There was a middle-aged man sitting at one of the tables outside with a coffee and writing in his notepad. Inside, the girls behind the counter were still getting setup. I ordered a latte and when asked if it was to go or for here, I said for here. I should have said to go as, for some reason, I prefer to drink out of the to go cups. There seemed to be a tension in the air; I felt as if I should have just ordered a coffee—maybe the espresso machine wasn’t ready yet. Anyhow, I looked at the art on the walls while they made it and picked it up when it was ready and went to a table outside.

I opened my leather bound notepad to write down some thoughts and maybe make a to do list. I had forgotten a pen. There was always a pen in my notebook, but not this morning. So instead I browsed through the two pads that were filled up inside and remembered all the things I’d done over the past couple months. Many of the pages were filled with a short story I had written a few weeks early. It was only the second complete story I’d written since college. I found a hair-brained idea to start a tea bar called the “North Atlantic Tea Bar”. It was going to stay open as late as possible and feature the most intoxicating green teas and have an actual bar area where people could sit and maybe meet new people.

I found a thought I had written down weeks earlier while sitting at the same shop: “Conflicts and relationships in history do not disappear without resolution, they simply obscure themselves in the muddiness of the present”. This was something I had thought about while reading “A Short History of the World”.

I found an outline for an essay I hope to write called “The Coming Age of Innovation” that details not only the challenges presented by our country’s aging population (Social Security and Medicare crisis), financial burdens (national debt, trade deficit, finite oil resources, climate change, real estate prices) but also the opportunities it presents to people my age (full employment, affordable housing, and a world driven by cleaner energy).

I also found the scores of some past scrabble games, also played at this café. There were notes from another book I was reading about how technological change is bringing opportunities to developing nations such as China, India, and Russia and it’s affect on the US.

Another page showed an idea I had for a website where people around the world could trade knowledge projects. No money would be exchanged—you earned credit by completing a knowledge project yourself and paid others for projects with the credit you earned.

Coming Home
With the rain spitting on my pages and the leftover feeling of tension inside the café and looking at all these big ideas I had been pursuing over the past couple months, I suddenly felt an emptiness underneath it all. I remembered the man on the bridge with his 19th Nervous Breakdown song. My pulse quic kened and my thought train stopped. Perhaps the caffeine had kicked in. I brought my cup inside to the bus bucket and started walking home.

There is a carpe diem spirit that resides in the dawn hours. It comes from the idea that something in the present is all important and reminds you of the passing of time and the need to capture it. It is that panicky feeling and pulling on the heartstrings when you know that you will die someday and that you need to live now.
It is that every moment dies as fast as it is created. It was that I really needed a nap.

Open Mic Night @ Press Room

2005-07-26T16:08:00.000-04:00

Will likely be some folks down at the Press Room around 10 tonight to see Steph on piano.

Red Door Tuesday

2005-07-26T15:40:00.000-04:00

A special act is playing at the Red Door tonight before the regular DJ. His name is Tim and an anonymous source says he's awesome. Be there @ 7:30.