Category Archives: boston celtics

That is BOGUS!!!

I don’t think of myself as a particularly Zen person. My jaw is usually tense, I talk to myself on public transportation, and most of my experiences with social media cause more harm then good. (I live in fear of the day when Zuckerberg goes rogue and lets everyone see who has looked at their Facebook profile in the past year. On that day I will be permanently re-locating to a sewer in Nicaragua.) But despite these facts, I occasionally find myself experiencing bliss. And since bliss is pretty awesome and glow-ey, I will now let you in on my secret: I eat a lot of pickles, and I watch Tommy Heinsohn call Celtics games.

Let’s start with pickles. I love pickles so much. I always forget how much I love them until I have them in my house, as I do right now. They are truly the fridge equivalent of a joyful dog greeting you at the door when you come home—so salty and tasty and crunchy and wet! They make a sandwich so good and crisp I could cry!  Plus, pickles are very low in calories. I just discovered this. Like, tonight. And I would love pickles regardless, but the fact that you could eat an entire jar in one sitting and not have to feel all “uhhh-Blake-Lively-would-nevvvver-do-that-why-am-I-watching-NewGirl-in-a-velour-bathrobe-from-2002-with-a-jar-of-pickles-in-my-lap” makes them somehow even more amazing.

Bring this photo to the MoMa!!

Then there’s Tommy Heinsohn. Tommy Heinsohn is a New England treasure. If he is not a part of your life, he should be.

He’s loud, he’s seventy-eight (photos above ain’t recent, but to fabulous to not show), and he’s a true BALLER in every sense of the word. (Eight NBA titles: check. Oil paints for a hobby: check.) In my mind, the sound of his voice and the force of his love for the hometeam are the epitome of whatever a juice fast or the word OM is supposed to do.  I’m convinced the clip below could possibly knock-out the entire anti-depressant market in one fell swoop if doctors prescribed hourly listening. If ever in need of a pick-me-up after a horrific ride on the Green Line during rush hour, I suggest two Clausen’s pickles and the video below on repeat.



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Feels like Friday.

The OptimistFreak, giggling in front of le Barking Crab. Those red and yellow stripes always put me in a good mood—means summer is here.

My roommates are both beautiful, right? (And clearly they have a thing for cute shoes.) Hope everyone is enjoying the beautiful day. Go Celtics!


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Conflicting emotions brought on by this photo….

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Blue to Yellow.

Yesterday, I was having a blah day. And it stank. And there was no real reason for said blah-ness, which made it even worse. But sometimes those days just happen, I guess. (But do they happen to Kate Middleton? Riddle me this…)

Of course, there is one upside to having a bad day, or morning, or afternoon, and that is the moment you come out of it. I’m always very into that moment—the clouds parting sort of thing. It’s like, “meh meh meh my life is stupid and blah blah and then: hey, this piece of toast with peanut butter and honey on it is good….and…I’M A HAPPY PERSON!!”, and then all of a sudden you’re giggling and licking your fingers and shaking your butt. Bam. Mood gone.

So in honor of mood-turners, here are three things that got me feeling good yesterday:

This song:

(loved this is 5th grade; had absolutely no idea what she was talking about)

This man:

I ran into him on the street and we remembered each other from St.Patty’s day and he was again smoking a cigar which he blew in my face but it was lovely to see him and exchange such happy hello’s of recognition and feel like there are still things like neighborhoods out there. I like this North End place, I tell ya.

(Also, that coat is marvelous. As is how Rondo played on Tuesday night. And how bat-shit crazy KG is. (It’s a beautiful thing, KG’s insanity—it’s like performance art.) No, if the Celtics keep winning—and hopefully in a bit more dominating fashion…—one can never have an excuse to be crabby again.)

AND THEN, I saw this play with my friend Amy:

(A play! Plays are cool! You should see it, too! It’s in the South End! Tickets at!)

And THEN I just remembered this:

(So…four things. I lied.)

Little Brady in a Patriots hat. That is my Zoloft.

Happy Thursday.


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I’m excited for the game tonight.

Incredible finish on Sunday night; Ray Allen BE STILL MY HEART. (OptimistFreak is so right about that whole positive energy thing.) And it’s a little lame, but I love the ritual of reading about the game the next morning—or five minutes after it’s over on—and re-living all the good stuff, as if you somehow forgot what happened. But after a win like Sunday’s, there’s nothing better than that.

So…let’s win tonight, shall we?


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Flowahs on the trees!

I went to the Borders on Boylston the other day. Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past two months, you’re probably aware that it’s closing AND EVERYTHING MUST GO INCLUDING ALL FURNITURE AND LIGHT FIXTURES AND OVER-PRICED COFFEE TABLE BOOKS ABOUT GLORIA VANDERBILT! *sign for sale as well.

And it was quite the sad sight, that place. I had a lot of fond memories at the Borders on Boylston, mostly of looking at piles of fashion magazines for hours and then walking out without purchasing anything. Still, seeing that behemoth of a shiny red and rich bookstore reduced to it’s most shameful scraps and desperate pleas—a true graveyard of American Pie 3 DVDs and fishing magazines on sale for 80% off—well, it’s enough to make any book-store lover choke up a little bit. It felt more like I was wandering around a Building Nineteen, complete with the requisite needs-to-shower crazy person elbowing you in the stomach so she can snatch the last Anne Geddes calendar out of your hands, then a classy place you once went to to get coffee and browse cookbooks and feel all in-a-bubble and smart. Kindle schmindle, I say!

But I was more focused on the mega-sale of all mega-sales that day, and not so much on e-reader politics or why Borders had decided to go bankrupt all of a sudden. Instead, I was determined to leave the store with a library-changing purchase, and for next to nothing, if possible. The signs had infiltrated my brain. Of course, I was too late. Notoriously late on the uptake, (I just discovered that song “Home” by Edward Sharpe, like, last week) most of the gems had been pillaged out of Borders weeks ago. And the sections that I looked in—history and food and health and memoir—were complete wastelands of Tai Chi for dummies and Scott Brown’s smiling mug. Feeling totally dejected by the lack of Ina Garten’s cookbooks available for eight dollars, I made a last-ditch stop at the humor bin before exiting. “Why hasn’t Tina Fey’s memoir arrived yet??”, I moaned, out loud, to no one in particular. Finally, two books caught my attention: Nora “otherwise known as God” Ephron’s I Remember Nothing, and Samantha Bee’s I Know You Are But What Am I? Hurray for the ladies! I pulled them both down, sat cross-legged on the floor like a six-year-old, hummed Beyoncé, and began to decide which one to rescue and bring home.

Now, I’m a big fan of Her Highness Ephron’s, and I loved her last book, I Feel Bad About My Neck,  immensely. (Why I relate so much to a woman pushing seventy who writes mostly about her fear of death and distaste of wrinkles, I do not know.) But on this occasion, I felt myself gravitating more towards Ms. Bee, and it wasn’t just because her book’s cover was a lovely hot pink, and thus would make not only fun reading material, but a great accessory for spring. (Bright colors are very in, FYI.) It was because her book was cheaper. And also, unlike Nora’s, her book was the only one left in the ENTIRE Borders, so I felt like I was kind of a bad-ass in getting my paws on it. Then there was the fact that literally every essay in Nora’s book was about the fact that she was old and dying and forgetting everything she ever knew about her life, and you can only take that ‘ish so far in your twenties before your friends start fleeing you in public for being such a morbid jack-ass. So I went hip and happy and bought Samantha’s book, and so far, it’s quite enjoyable—it’s like eating witty cotton-candy before bed every night. Super Jon-Stewarty yum! However, there was something in Nora’s book that I caught during my tear-filled Border’s floor-reading, and that I’ve been thinking about it ever since; it wasn’t even an essay of hers, but a list of all the things Nora will miss about earth when she’s gone. (Ha! Crazzzy, right!) Don’t worry, though. Instead of thinking all doom-and-gloomy like her—old people are sooo dramatic sometimes—seeing that list just made me think about spring instead (it’s been on my brain as of late) and about how much I love it, and also, how much I like making lists.

So, in honor of Nora, here’s a list about spring.

(Also, please buy someone a book for a present next time you buy a present. If all the bookstores in the world close I WILL GO NUTS and start breaking people’s kindles on the T.)

What I love about spring

Seeing girls tanning by the Charles in bikinis when it’s still only 52 degrees out
Men wearing shorts and flip-flops when it’s still only 52 degrees out and possibly hailing later
Sam Summer
Beer in general
More excuses to eat ice-cream/gelato/pinkberry
The swan boats
Pedicures having a meaning again
Cropped jeans/pedal-pushers/capris
Smelling someone’s grill as you’re walking down the street to home
First trip to Fenway
Celtics playoffs
Bruins playoffs
The Marathon
Saying F the T and walking the whole way there cause iiiit’s sunnnny ouuuut!
Little kids climbing all over the duck statues
Crying because you realize you can’t find your expensive sunglasses from last year
One day all of a sudden the tree branches having stuff on them
Happy dogs
Smiling people
The smell of grass
The smell of mulch
Lemonade and sparkling water
Roof decks
Actually enjoying a shower again
Your roommate’s boyfriend making home-made crab cakes
All those awkward engaged couples taking their save-the-date photos in the park
First meal of the year eaten outside
Very cold white wine
Would you like some more white wine?
Buying the super-cheap flowers for sale at the MGH stop and putting them in your IKEA vase at home and pretending you’re Gloria Vanderbilt
Easter candy
Cape Cod Potato Chips
Drinking Diet Coke out of a can while sitting on the grass and fantasizing about summer
Listening to this song while emptying the dishwasher with the windows open.

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You gotta love this coat. And the serious swagger this dude’s got going on. I hope the Celtics get some of their swagger back in the playoffs. Usually happens when YOU WIN GAMES, an area the team has been lacking in as of late. Also, my boyfriend predicts “a complete bloodbath” with the Knicks. (He always sounds like a seventy-year-old man when he talks about sports, complete with copious head-nodding and strange Tim Allen grunting sounds.) Do I have faith? The sportswriter in the Improper Bostonian wrote something in the recent issue like, “If they lose in the first round, I wouldn’t be surprised. If they won it all, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Well, that’s sort of a total cop-out, if you ask me. They’re old! They’re warriors! Rondo sucks! Rondo’s amazing! Kendrick Perkins where arrreeee you….

But get this: I watched the 2008 win (and essentially all the ’08 play-off games) in a bar in Allston with my friend Emma, who just found out a few days ago she got into nursing school in Austin and is REALLY excited about that. So….I’m thinking that there has to be some gas left in the tank. Right? Or, as OptimistFreak says, let’s put positive vibes out there, because hey, you CAN affect the world with your energy, and that includes Ray’s shooting touch! Sure, the risk is getting your heart broken by strained-calf Shaq and Co., but if they play well and play their hearts out, you want to say you were no negative Nancy, and that you did believe. COME ON CELTICS!!!


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St. Patty’s Day

Hopefully everyone had a good Saint Patrick’s Day yesterday, and enjoyed the beautiful BEAUTIFUL day. I got to spend some time with my boyfriend’s grandparents (we went to Amrheins for lunch) and it was really crowded and green and beer-filled and nice. (Plus, my boyfriend’s grandfather always tells good stories, and, as you will see, his grandmother can still somehow make bright green look incredibly glamorous. And probably a paper bag too, if she wanted.) I also meet this guy smoking a cigar when I walked out my door first thing in the morning, and had to take his picture like a creep. (Though I did ask this time.) His name is Charlie, he said he’s Italian-American but loves the holiday, and how can you not appreciate the mustache and the Celtics gear?

Missing the parade on Sunday, which makes me sad, but hopefully the rest of the weekend is just as warm and fun. Boston isn’t a bad place to be for this holiday, eh?


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Green for Spring!

I was too embarrassed to run in front of this old guy and take his picture when I saw him walking down Charles Street the other day, so sadly, the image is not that great. But you can sort of imagine how amazing this Celtics coat was even from the back, right? It was REALLY green, and I REALLY want one.

All business right there.

Go Celtics.



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Taj at the Wilbur

I went to see Taj Mahal at the Wilbur Theatre last Thursday night. I’d never been to the Wilbur before, or seen Taj live. I took my boyfriend, for Valentine’s Day, since he’s the one who introduced me to Taj Mahal, and also because I really wanted to see the concert: heeellooo total win-win gift situation.

The Wilbur is in Boston’s theatre district. (Well, you probably knew that already…) I don’t spend too much time around this area of the city, but I’d like to more. It has a distinct character: there’s the blend into Chinatown; the random bars and pizza places and skinny Emerson kids smoking their ciggs; the trash on the sidewalk and that semi-seedy late 1980’s aura still hanging around, but it’s blended in with all the new development and the fancy-pants W hotel and the billboards and the great venues, which add there sparkle and make me want to go to the THEATUH all the time. It’s a mish-mash, and I like it.

I also really liked the Wilbur, inside and out. I did some perusing on Yelp before I bought the tickets, and apparently people have some heated things to say about the theatre as a comedy venue, but as a place to see a concert, it was lovely: ornate gold leaf decorations, chandeliers, red-velvet upholstered seats—very fourth-grade trip to the ballet (Zeiterion Theatre anybody?), and I’m a grandma, so I secretly sort of like when you have no choice but to sit down at concerts. (Standing and bopping your head and arms around is so awkward sometimes, right?) They also had a really strict no cell-phone policy, and not just about photos—you couldn’t have your cell-phone out at all, and them security ladies weren’t messing around. But I sort of liked it. A whole sea of faces all night, and everyone actually paying attention to the music and the same thing, and not frowning or snorting while clicking glowy devices perched on their laps. (It was like we were, gasp, sharing the same experience or something…)



My boyfriend and I started out the night by getting a drink at Jacob Wirth’s (a whole post devoted to that wonderful place coming soon), and then when we got to the venue, a seating attendant opened the door right as we were going in and spilled my boyfriend’s beer on him, and she was all “I’m sooooo sorry, oh silly me!” and then went and got him another beer, even though he’d only lost 30% of his drank. So, like, WE GOT A FREE BEER. (At the time, it was REALLY exciting….) The night continued on a great track when I got to hear the woman behind us, who must have been sixty-five, tell her husband that he was just like Phil Dunphy, and he responded by saying “Is that the one married to the one with the tits?” A few minutes later, I thought I smelled weed. (Like I said, huge grandma alert.) I turned to my boyfriend to ask him if he smelled it too, and he was like, “Caroline, a girl with dreadlocks just sat down two seats from us. That is what you are smelling.” Pause. “You are a grade-A clown.”

Speaking of romance, I already mentioned that I was introduced to Taj’s music by said boyfriend; it was right when we started dating, and he sent me a mix CD in the mail with a bunch of artists on it, and some of Taj’s live stuff was included. (Sigh.) I fell in love with the music (um, how could you not?), and so I knew I’d enjoy the concert, but I was still blown away by the show, and I’m sure anyone who’s seen Taj live knows what I mean. Sure, his personality comes across in any recording, but seeing him and hearing him in the flesh is a whole different story—I mean the dude is pushing seventy, but he’s still incredibly charismatic, and so formidable, and just alive….he must be 6’3” or 6’4”, and he struts out on stage wearing his Hawaiian shirt and his fedora and then he plays his heart out while making these incredibly funny semi-lewd faces and gestures, and he is just filled with so much soul, and, energy, and happiness, and sex, and it was a joy to be in the company of his talent and life force for a bit. We had such a good time that I think my boyfriend even forgot about the Perk trade for an hour.

(Ouch, Charlie.)

For the encore, Taj brought his daughter out on stage, who had actually been the singer in the opening act—though no one had had any idea—so it was a really nice surprise. (GIRL CAN SIIING.) They sang “Lovin’ in My Baby’s Eyes” which happens to be my favorite Taj song, and it was amazing, and I was sort of feeling my beers at that point, and maybe teared up at how sweet it was to have them singing to each other, and my boyfriend was like, “I can’t take you anywhere in public.”

But hey, I took him somewhere in public this time, so totally allowed.

Here is Taj singing another one of his hits “Queen Bee”, in 2008. I suggest you watch it and think about warm weather and relaxing on the beach with your love, and not this gross slush-rain-muck…


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