Back from Illadelph.

Dear Jess,

Welcome back to Boston. We, the powers that be, would like to show our gladness for your return by granting you a miserable, cold, Londonesque day of rain and wind. We heard you liked that sort of thing.

Love,

New England Weather
If you don't like the weather in New England, wait a minute!

Damn it feels good to be a hipsta.

I'm not a hipster, actually. I have plenty of hipsterish friends, enough hipstery leanings in fashion and music, but a hipster I am not.

For instance, this is one of the funny-because-it's-truest things I've seen in a while (especially because it is modeled after Monty Python's Upperclass Twit of the Year):



I don't even like going to shows anymore because I've been having a growing distaste for all the people dancing on me, the ones that elbow me in the face and get mad at me when I push back, the tall ones that don't let four inches get between my face and their backs, the ones who sing so loudly that I can't hear anymore, the ones who go to shows to catch up with old friends, etc.

That being said, I really do like going to the Middle East. I like going for dinner Upstairs or at ZuZu. I like ZuZu's Roots and Razors night every other Wednesday, I like the belly dancing on the Corner, I like that the crowd space Downstairs is raked so you can see better from the back. I like the bartender who used to play bass for the Charms. I like that somehow, everything is connected, and that nobody really yelled at me for sneaking through the kitchen from the Corner to the Upstairs, but rather I was told that I couldn't leave. I like the local art, the bright colors on the walls, the people-watching opportunities, the staff that's been there forever, and I like the food, the wine and the beer.

I spent most of my weekend on the corner of Mass Ave and Douglass, and had I not had the Plague, it would have been a near-perfect couple days. Granted, the Raging Teens X-Mas Party was at a freezing cold TT's, but it was the same crowd. One of the people I saw there was in the band I saw the next day. I like that about the Middle East, too. You always know somebody, if not by having ever spoken to them.

I'm glad, however, that I don't know the schmuck who wrote the one review of the Middle East on Menupages. This person, who might be the world's biggest tool, said:

This joint ain't bad. It has the funk I love. Great mix of customers of all stripes (and plaids). Pretty fair food. Unbelivelaby indifferent service. Music is the balls downstairs however. Eclectic (did I say eclectic? Oh my! If I use the word ambience tickle me till I'm pink). Where can you see Gogol Bordello, a band from the circus and a young student singer-songwriter under one roof? Service downstairs is worse than the upstairs. Haughty hotties give perfunctory service. Never the less downstairs is close, crowded, loud, hot and wicked fun.

I'm glad you like it, sir. But "haughty hotties" is neither clever nor respectful, you cannot spell, and self-conscious parenthetical musings have no place in restaurant reviews. And tell me you didn't call it a "joint".

Busting at the seams.

Don't you hate when someone tells you the most remarkable secret you've gotten your hands on in years and it's amazing and happy and you can't tell anyone?

When that happens, I mean, it sucks.

Or as a hypothetical...

Never mind, I wish I could publish this secret here. Now I have to wait a week. Picture a Brechtian silent scream. That's me right about now.