o Good news, everyone: I found the filthiest toilet in Boston.1 It’s the men’s room in the Borders at Downtown Crossing. The first time I used it, several years ago, I remember I needed a token to open the door but nothing else about the experience. The second time I used it, this past Sunday: disaster!
Picture the worst train station bathroom you’ve ever entered, but with a lone Robert Doisneau print on the wall. A floor awash in urine. Two stalls, one of which won’t stay closed and the other of which o’erflows with solid fecal waste. The soap dispenser hangs on the wall above the trash can, rather than within arm’s reach of the sink, thus guaranteeing fewer people will find or use it.
Can I blame the entirety of its disgusting decline on no longer requiring a token for entry? Yes. Yes, I can.
o I have nothing but good things to say about the lunchtime bartender at the Grafton St Pub in Harvard Square. He not only has an Irish accent, but he’s everything you’d expect of a proper European bartender. Picture that guy in the Stella Artois commercial, trying to pour a beer in a train car and failing, but without the snooty attitude.
o Sometimes when I get out of jiu-jitsu, I notice that the music on the stereo seems about a quarter-step slower. I never notice it at any other time. Still flushed from exercise, I attribute it to the cocktail of adrenaline and oxygenated blood. I’ve worked out so hard that I’ve stepped outside of time. I have a mutant power.
On Tuesday night, driving home from jiu-jitsu, I decided to at least offer a sop to the scientific method and turn on the radio to see if other music sounded slower. It did not.
o I’d fret publicly over how much I still needed to pack, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything. I really ought to be fretting over how many boxes I need to buy.
o My school’s five-year reunion falls this weekend and I don’t know if I’m going. I already have plans on Saturday, so I’ll show up to the Saturday event late if at all. And I’d gladly forego the Friday party if someone had a better offer. Many of my better friends from school can’t make it, many of the rest fall either a year ahead of or behind me, and the few that will be there I see every week anyway.
As I’ve said before: BC was big enough to have subcultures, and for that I’m grateful. Smaller schools tend to drown students in the overwhelming social circle of the same hundred people. But I got to hang with the theater kids. Specifically, the improv kids. Specifically, the improv murder mystery kids. You can’t drill down to that level at St. John’s, let me tell you.
1 If you have a website, weblog, LiveJournal or Facebook page, please post the above link, using the text “filthiest toilet in Boston.” I’d like to revive the dormant tradition of Googlebombing as a public service. The people must be warned!