Fungible Convictions

The last week or so have been a set of downright pleasant days. Shall we count the ways:

• Baseball’s position players reported to spring training yesterday
• I exchanged awesome emails with the wife of the late jazz great Charles Mingus
• We caught my friend Walter‘s really excellent show at the Armory Cafe in Somerville
• We hung out with friends at Toad a couple nights later
• My wife gave me an early birthday present of a high-priced Invictus wristwatch bought for a preposterously low price
• And I wasn’t immediately shot down when I floated the idea of going to Chicago on the Center for Future Civic Media’s dime to present projects to high schoolers who happen to be students of one of my best friends

It’s like I’m Gatsby and life is a squirrel, and we’re just waiting for the right moment to attack and/or spoon each other.

It’s a lot better than the week or two prior, which was capped off by a scream from the bathroom as my wife accidentally discharged a loaded heart-shaped Valentine’s liquid soap:

Last night I received a note from Jesse Haley pointing me to Haley Booksellers’ photographs of The Legends of Winter Hill party at Red Bones. About the party, I’ll just say there was a lot of beer, a lot of muscle, and seemingly one smile that started by the bar, bent over the picnic bench-style tables, and finished by the drum kit.

Anyway, a couple pics.

Here’s author Jay Atkinson, with one of the many people that night that scared the crap out of me, despite their clear awesomeness. (I blame this on my lack of tattoos, biceps, and fedoras.)

And here’s Joe McCain, Jr., a Somerville cop like his famed father, both of whom are the subjects of Atkinson’s book.

I bought my copy of The Legends of Winter Hill from Jesse. (He and his father ably manned a Legends-filled table two steps from the bar. I never saw Mr. Haley’s hand leave the top of the cash-box.) Then last week I read the book—tore through it, really—and fell in love with Boston all over again. It’s a city that acts tough but is really a big softie, the home (well, Somerville) of folks like the McCains or like the crossing guard on my route to work who will say to a five year old, “Good mahwnin’, dearie, look at that beautiful jacket yuv got on today,” and immediately turn to a speeding driver to yell, “It’s called a stop light, ya fuck!”