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

Sitting in a Thai restaurant the other day, I heard a woman ask the waiter for a pair of chopsticks.  I am always amazed by the patience and understanding of the Thai people.  If I was Thai and someone asked me for a pair of chopsticks, I would go into a rant about how “all Asian people look alike to you, huh?!”  Perhaps it is just ignorance, but I consider it at least mildly incensitive.  They don’t use chopsticks in Thailand, with the exception of with some noodle soups.  Many Americans assume they do, however, because after all, they’re Asian.

Does it ever occur to these people that in Vietnamese restaurants and Japanese restaurants place settings include chopsticks while Thai place settings always have forks and spoons?  Do they think they are just scatterbrained and forget the chopsticks?  Italian restaurants serve noodles with meat and Indian restaurants serve rice with vegetables and meat.  Yet, these same people don’t ask waiters in those types of restaurants for chopsticks.  Okay.  All this talk about good food is making me hungry.  I think I’m going to run and get some Japanese food–and use chopsticks.

PS: Is the Bedknobs and Broomsticks reference too subtle??

Approximately two years ago, BigBelly solar trash compactors started popping up around Boston.  According to this Boston.com news article, it was an initiative by Mayor Menino to combat the city’s problem with overflowing garbage cans.  “They need emptying only once or twice a day, not the 15 or more sanitation worker visits required by some downtown trash cans. They don’t spill. They smell less. And, they hold some 150 gallons of trash, about five times more than a standard city receptacle.”  And the inventor of the BigBelly is even from Jamaica Plain.

The idea is environmentally sound, too.  According to the BigBelly website:

BigBelly uses solar power for 100% of its energy needs. The unit takes up as much space as the “footprint” of an ordinary receptacle—but its capacity is five times greater. Increased capacity reduces collection trips and can cut fuel use and greenhouse gas emissions by 80%.

All of this sounds great.  It made me feel proud of the forward-thinking Boston city planners and politicians.  But walking down the street the other day, I saw a BigBelly with these words written on the side: This machine stole my job.  Maybe it’s because my current work contract is ending in a few days and I have no idea what I’m doing next.  But it makes me wonder how many sanitation workers lost their jobs–workers with mouths to feed and bills to pay.  It makes me wonder if any job is ever secure.  Anyway, I have to go look for work–again.

I admit it: I hate tattoos.  I don’t have any; I don’t plan on getting any; I don’t even like looking at them.  Maybe it’s because when I was a little kid growing up in Hull, MA, the only people with tattoos were war veterans, ex-cons, bikers and bikers’ girlfriends.  In the 80s, rock stars were just starting to sport them. 

Now, it seems like everyone is sleaved up with Tony The Tiger stripes or maps of the Cambodian jungle or sayings in foreign languages they don’t even know to be accurate–and could very well say something inane like, “The wash closet is down the hall. Don’t clog the toilet.”

Maybe it’s because I was raised Jewish.  In general, Jews believe that we’re God’s creations and have no right to deface one of his/her human creations.  I’m not a religious man, however, so this is really not my reason.  It’s more that during World War II, the Nazis tattooed Jewish prisoners both out of disrespect and to keep better track of all the Jews they were killing.  In fact, they used tabulation machines created by IBM to keep accurate counts.

I guess I just think that if within 100 years, an army uses tattoos to try and break your spirit and more effectively kill you, well, “in the parlance of our times”: Too soon!

Another reason I don’t like them is because I think the human body is beautiful–one of the most beautiful works of art ever created.  And I didn’t create me.  My dad has more of a right to tattoo me than I do.  Choosing to tattoo your body is like taking a Sharpie and drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa because you think it will look cooler.

In the US, suicide is illegal.  I assume it is part of the same “I’m not my own property” argument.  I can’t kill myself, but I can vandalize myself.  Go figure.  I’m standing firm; I remain pure as the driven snow.

Update 7/28: I may not be right about the whole “suicide is illegal” thing.  Still, no tattoos!

So, I saw Chuck last night who informed me of another hate crime during that fateful Sally O’Briens show on July 5th.  I told him that I’ve been getting some good laughs out of the story, and he replied, “Did I ever tell you about the second part?  What happened next?”  I hadn’t heard this.

Apparently, there was a couple across from him from South America.  They, in fact, did hear me say “American songs”.  But the man erruped in anger, saying, “What?!  And I am NOT an American???”  So much anger!

After a tiny bit of research, I would say that the concensus in 2008 is that “American” refers to something or someone from the United States of America.  And even in its etymology, America is named after Amerigo Vespucci, the famed Italian explorer who supposedly was one of the first to reach the “New World”.  Imagine if I had said, “I’m gonna start off by playing some ‘new world’ songs.”  The whole frigging room would have been gunning for me!  “WHAT?!  I am from a different world???? Kill!  KILL!!!”

This 4th of July was a fun one.  My friend, and infamous TOAD bartender, Greg, had a BBQ replete with shotgunning small cans of Bud, drinking games, and lots of meat.  You know: it was very American.  After the BBQ, some of us headed over to Atwood’s to see Tim Gearan play, and after that the party resumed.  Needless to say, it was a long night. 

Now, those of you who know me know I am no stranger to long nights.  Unfortunately, I had underestimated what a toll such 4th of July activities would have on me, and I’d agreed to play a solo acoustic set the next night to help out a friend.  When I showed up at the venue, Sally O’Brien’s in Somerville, MA, I could barely play my guitar, but I was determined to entertain. 

I hit the stage around 10:00pm, and decided to play some songs in honor of the holiday weekend.  I greeted the crowd, “Hey everyone, I’m gonna start out tonight by playing some American songs.”  I started playing “Babe, It Ain’t No Lie” by Elizabeth Cotton.  For those of you who don’t know Elizabeth Cotton, she was an African American woman from North Carolina, born in 1895, who taught herself guitar and wrote songs, and had worked as a maid from the time she was 13 years old.  She was “discovered” when she became a maid for the Seeger family.  Probably her most famous song is “Freight Train”. 

Check out this video of her playing Freight Train.  You see a long close-up of her bizarre playing style; the guitar is upside down and she’s playing the melody with her thumb and the bass parts with her fingers.  But, I digress.  I was going to play Freight Train next, as a sort of Elizabeth Cotton medley.  My concentration was broken, however, when half way into the first verse, a drunk older guy in the back screamed, “YOU SUCK!”  I thought, “Wow. That’s a first.”  Just as I finished the song, the same guy staggered up to the stage, reached his hand out, apologized and disappared. 

I found out later that he was sitting next to my friend Chuck, and Chuck thought he heard, “Hey Chuck!” so he asked the guy, “What did you say?”  The guy pointed to me and said, “I said he sucks.” Chuck asked, “Why’d you say that?”  The drunk replied, “Because he said that America sucks!”  My friend corrected him, “He said: American SONGS!”  The guy told him he felt terrible and that’s when he came over and apologized.  Yup.  That gig was one for the books.