Dave Alpert: I Know Where You’re Going with That

Despite the fact that I live in the Fenway, I decided to watch Game 4 of the World Series in Cambridge.  This was a mistake.  It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the game or the company I kept.  It’s more along the lines of “what a drag it is getting home”–even at 2am.

Once I crossed the Mass Ave Bridge, I immediately felt I had enterered a war zone.  Police were barring entry to Beacon Street on both sides, and Mass Ave was full of debris and broken glass.  There were blue lights and cops in full riot gear on almost every corner until Boylston Street where they’d closed off Mass Ave in front of the Berklee Performance Center.  I had to take a left onto Boylston and round the block.  I came out on the other side of the BPC and made a left onto Mass.  Despite the strong police presence, crazed partiers staggered all down the the middle of the street and popped out from between cars to “high five” my sideview mirror.  One kid gently jumped partially across the hood of my car… while it was moving… on Mass Ave… with police everywhere.  So, why exactly were the police there?

As you may recall, near the end of Game 7 of the ALCS, I asked some police officers some questions.  After all, their job is to protect AND serve.  Yeah.  They should shoot bad guys and subdue drug crazed savages.  But they’re also supposed to be helpful to tax paying residents trying to get home safely after an exciting Game 4.  No?  Well, they were no help last week, and this week was equally as frustrating.

When I turned onto my street, I found no parking.  On the adjacent streets, there were no cars despite the fact the signs stated the parking ban had ended at 1am. I rolled down my window to ask a policeman a question.  Again: “Excuse me, officer.  The sign says…”  He interrupted in an extremely aggitated manner, “What’d you say?!”  I said, “The sign says…”  He yelled, “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”  I thought, “Dude, if you weren’t dressed in that friggin armored outfit and helmet like you were being dropped into downtown Basra, maybe you could hear me talking.”  But I said, “I’m sorry officer.  The sign says 1am.  When can I move back there?”  He replied, “The street is closed.”

Now don’t get me wrong.  I have no beef with the police.  In fact, I fully respect and admire the job they do.  In addition, I understand the difficulties they must have in protecting us from the evil in the world.  Nevertheless, this is the second time I’ve approached a police officer for assistance in 2 weeks, and for the second time I was addressed in an inappropriate manner.  I did not interrupt in the middle of a riot; the street was fairly tranquil for a four game sweep.  Yet, I thought there was a chance he’d yank me out of my car and start beating me with that closet rod looking wooden stick thing he was wielding.  It’s not my fault his boss made him dress like a cross between Darth Vader and The Tin Man. 

Maybe instead of arming him with that pole, they should have armed him with information about when the friggin street was going to re-open.  That would have been helpful.  Instead, he just clutched that light colored staff.  I gave up and retreated.  I found alternate parking and stayed away from his angry ass.  Fuck, though.  “Woe is me!  I have to work overtime and get paid time and a half to stand on the street corner, look deterring, oogle hot college girls and make sure 90 lb Berklee students don’t burn down the neighborhood with homeade potato cannons and flame throwers. Boo Hoo!” 

Lighten up guys!  Or maybe, tonight, he was one of those extra cops they brought in from like Stoughton, and he was just annoyed he wasn’t seeing any action and couldn’t crack any heads.  If that’s the case, buddy, you’re in luck!  The Super Bowl is just around the corner, and there’s always next year.  Lock and load!

A few days ago, I called Ben, the bass player in my band, to ask him a question.  When he answered his phone, I said, “Hey!  Aren’t you in my Intro to Unemployment class?”  We both cracked up.  He is a student at the Berklee College of Music, and everyone knows how difficult it is to make a living as a musician.  This little exchange got me thinking seriously–and also humorously–about the education system in the US.

When I spoke those words, the two of us started coming up with possible subjects.  There was “how to sign up for unemployment” and “how to sneak into college cafaterias while playing on a campus”, “how to run a frialator”, “pulling great espresso shots” and more.  While we were half joking, the real truth became apparent.  School doesn’t prepare you for what life is really like.

 I recounted this story to another songwriter friend, Mike, from the band Damone.  We started talking about high school.  In high school, there was an attempt to provide practical skills: woodshop, sewing, cooking, accounting, art.  I thought back on my cooking class in 7th grade.  In 2 months we managed to make Baked Alaska.  This is baked Alaska (essentially ice cream cooked in meringue):

(photo from whatscookingamerica.net)

What was the purpose of that?!  In high school, in college and afterwards we needed JOBS.  You can learn to cook home food from your parents.  Perhaps it would have been more useful to learn to use this:

Or this…

And while we’re talking about things we should have been taught in high school, how about doing our taxes?  It seems like a no-brainer.  As a student at Brandeis University, I had to take a swimming test in order to graduate.  The reason for this requirement was that a significant donor to the university had a child die from drowning.  They gave money to the university under the stipulation that they would require that every graduate know how to swim.  The federal government provides tons of funding to schools.  You’d think they’d employ the same strategy.  If you teach kids how to do their taxes, perhaps they’ll even pay them!  Hello!

No.  Instead we made ugly lamps in wood shop and learned how to use pre-historic accounting machines.  Well done, dickheads!  Sure we all wanted to be astronauts and cowboys.  But this is real life, baby!  Would you like some fries with those life skills?!

The East Fenway is a great place to live.  It’s more affordable than the South End and less pretentious than the Bay Bay.  The only drawback is that while the “adult” residents are mixed in terms of race, ethnicity and add to a culturally diverse neighborhood, we are far outnumbered by students–mainly Northeastern students.  For me, a musician and creative, this is no problem.  I don’t go to sleep early nor do I get up early.  The noise, mess and even vomit puddles do not bother me.  However, the parking bans during Red Sox playoffs are annoying and unnecessary.  All they accomplish is to cause ire among hard working Boston residents trying to park within a 10 minute walk of their apartments.

For example, on Hemenway Street, there is no parking between Boylston Street and the Museum of Fine Arts yesterday and today.  Clearly, this has nothing to do with the game itself.  Yesterday, the Red Sox weren’t even in Boston.  For the past three years, I’ve asked police officers and Boston Transportation Authority workers (meter maids), and none can provide an official answer about the parking bans.

I walked to the local convenience store a few minutes ago and again decided to look for an answer.  Two police officers were standing on the corner of Westland Ave and Hemenway St.  I asked, “Excuse me.  Do you know when I can move my car back to Hemenway?”  They answered, “Tomorrow.”  I said, “Well, tomorrow begins at 12:01, right?”  One, pointing to a Boston Transportation Authority tow truck replied, “I’d wait until tomorrow.  I said, “So, is the reason for the parking ban that they think that Northeastern students are drug-crazed savages, hellbent on destroying property across the entire neighborhood?”  The shorter of the two asked, “Are you one of them?”  Then the taller one added, “Because you do look like a classic car-tipper.  Can I see some ID?”  We all sort of laughed.  I decided to retreat, however.  I am a big fan of the Boston Police Blog and I didn’t want to end up there in the daily crime summary as “Fenway Resident Learns Not To Joke About Crime From the Inside of a Squad Car”.

While none will fess up to it, I know that this is the reason for such a ludacris parking ban.  Parking in Boston is tough enough without needless restrictions.  The reasoning seems so ass backwards, too.  You are worried that bands of violent Northeastern meatheads are going to tip over cars, so you outlaw cars????  That’s like banning alleys because drunks may piss on them or banning convnience stores because crackheads might hold them up.  If they are so convinced that Northeastern Students are ruffians intent on causing mayhem, why not just outlaw Northeastern?  Or why not evict them and move them to Waltham?

Personally, I’ve never had problems with the students around here.  Yeah.  They get drunk and do stupid stuff.  Yeah.  A lot of them are big dudes wearing backward baseball caps who could crush me like a twig.  But most of them are cool.  I know that in the past, the partying has gotten out of hand.  In fact, the guy that ran down that kid on Symphony Road after the Super Bowl a few years ago was arrested right in front of my eyes.  Still, I put more faith in these kids.  And I want my parking back!

In any event, the Sox just won game seven of the ALCS less than a half hour ago.  GO SOX!  The World Series starts here at Fenway on Wednesday.  I guess I’ll have to find alternative parking again this week!

OK.  So as some of you might know, I’ve been experimenting with facial hair lately.  I hate goatees, so I tried my hand at the moustache.  Before the disguise, I was told I look like Jack Osbourne.  With the moustache, I got “Hey!  You look like Ron Jeremy… from the waist UP!”  Thanks.  If I’m going to be likened to a porn star, it might has well be one of the best.

The turning point for me was when my friend Deana said, “Dave Alpert!  You have a moust… eh, a molest-ache!”  (Don’t be alarmed.  Many of my friends call me Dave Alpert.  I’m a brand unto myself.)

Over the past few days, I heard smarmy, child molester, pervert, etc.  My friend Kat suggested that I may never see a woman naked (read: find true love) again.  Heck, I couldn’t even look at myself.  So, this morning, I shaved it into funny shapes to crack myself up and then ultimately shaved the whole thing off.  The deed is done.  I know that many pics were snapped at the Bill’s Bar show, so if you haven’t seen, you’ll get to see me and the Dave Alpert/Ron Jeremy molest-ache soon enough.

I would hope this joke has been made a million times over the past 4 years since the movie came out…

Anyway, the band and I are going to play at Bill’s Bar tomorrow night, and it should be utter mayhem–both because we rock and because the show is on Landsdowne Street across from Fenway Park on the same night as home game #1 of the playoffs!  Join the frey…

DAVE ALPERT
Wednesday, Oct 3, 9:45pm
Bill’s Bar
5 Landsdowne St, Boston, MA
18+. $7 adv, $10 door.  4 great bands.  Other bands: That Ish and the Abby, The Cups, Chelsea City Council.  Doors at 8:30pm.

PS: We still have some $7 tix left, so get in touch and we’ll figure it out.  See ya tomorrow!