Prince and Salem, Motherfucker!
Friends and I tend to meet up at the Pushcart in the North End every Thursday night. My NE boozer of choice used to be the Different Drummer, way back when, but that building was sold 2 years ago and now resembles the Parthenon. It's yuppie bait. This neighborhood is being snapped up and developed quicker than you can say 'gentrification' - but the compensation is enormous. These buildings are lottery tickets, hold-outs are cashing in and post-Big Dig Boston's downtown is about to become an incredibly beautiful and therefore yuppified place to live. The neighborhood flips every century or so. Ira gave it up to Seamus, Seamus split when Anthony arrived and now Anthony is passing the torch to Biff and Bunny.
As the affluent yutes move in, and the demographic collides like a gas truck into a Girls Gone Wild tour bus - there are bound to be oil and water type problems in the 02113. Never was that more apparent to me than last year when I wrote about a community meeting I attended which was called due to excessive late noise by the aforementioned yutes. But there's actually a lot of yute-on-yute crime, which doesn't involve the natives, that's just as disturbing.
I saw what was perhaps the worst, silliest, non-fight I've ever witnessed 10 minutes ago as I was walking back from the Pushcart (awesome pizza, by the way) on the corner of Prince and Salem. A tall skinny white kid with longish hair was screaming at another 20-something on the opposite end of the as equally skinny street. "Do you know where I live? Do you know where I live?" The abusee responded "Why are you flipping out on me man?" To which hockey hair replied "Do you know where I live?"
Maybe he was lost, in retrospect. But just in case - can I jump in here?
Jerktown? A Wu Tang Clan video your older brother let you watch when you were 10? OK I give up. Where do you live? Let me guess - Brooklyn? Fuck off. As I walked away from the 'fight' I chuckled, remembering my 20s in Canada where knock down, drag out slugfests would start in front of a Slush Puppy machine over the last squirt of blue raspberry syrup. And that was the gay bar. I swear I just went in to use the ATM.
People who don't want to fight make a lot of noise in hopes of getting a post-bravado smile from a passing skunt. People who really will fight will just walk up and pop you with little to no ado about anything. And I love watching that two second moment of facial realization before head meets concrete when the two worlds collide. Especially when it isn't my face.
This is a great place to live. Don't drag this late night pseudo toughguy horseshit into it. If you're going to call someone out, hit the mutherfucker. I'd gladly grab a Buffalo chicken calzone and stick around to watch. Otherwise, let us get some sleep you silly Laguna Beach watching bastards. You ain't gonna do a goddamn thing.
posted by Dave Pye @ 8/17/2006 10:33:00 PM
8 Comments:
You are a brave man talking about the North End again Dave. I applaud you. The guy yelling "Do you know where I live!" should really have been yelling "Please don't hit me, I have no intention of fighting you, and if it goes that far I will run away like a little girl. I am only yelling so I can tell my friends how you backed down, and if you hit me, I am not going to be able to look cool in front of them, so I say again, please do not hit me!"
I learned my lesson. This is a very pro-traditional North End piece. I truly empathize with the long time residents because the neighborhood has turned into the student quad from PCU.
That was the funniest thing I've read in agood long while...if only you have a camcorder with you....
Hey, hey, hey ... I live in Brooklyn! That kinda crap does not happen in my hood.
There is one particular reader of the PITF that will, for now, go nameless that I've seen walk right up to people and knock them right the fuck out!
I've seen far too many of those screaming matches. It is always nice to see someone back it up.
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Man do I miss the good old days in the North End when nobody said nothing to anybody because you never knew who was "connected" to what.
The tradeoff though, was being grilled by your landlady on Saturday morning about your "gentleman caller" the night before.
How late in the evening was this incident? Maybe the guy really was lost. Matt and I used to hang out on that very corner on hot summer nights and count the confused tourists. Occassionally, we'd take pity and say "You are, indeed, in "Little Italy;" you can follow this street to the "main drag;" and it's pronounced Ja-ca-mo's, not Jia-como's."
Who knows, maybe this guy's still wandering around asking people where he lives. Early onset Alzheimer's maybe? His family must be worried sick.
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