December 5, 2007
I'm really bummed to see that the Greenhouse restaurant at Harvard Square has gone the way of the Wursthaus and the Tastee, i.e., is no more. Making their way for who-knows-what business. No doubt about it Harvard Square has lost much of its old charm.
Once upon a time I wrote a prose poem about their french fries and heartbreak.
And then at Davis Square there's a new building with the health club above and a CVS below, right there between the twin subway entrances. The thing is, I can't for the life of me remember what was on that block, if I had to draw a map I would have put the old Someday Cafe location directly across from that block where the Buck-A-Book used to be.
Damn it, I'm remembering all these places by what used to be there.
Personals of the Moment
Excerpts from from "They Call Me Naughty Lola", personals from the London Review of Books:
I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out and covered in too much tahini. Before long I'll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you're the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors. Box no. 5632.
Nothing in this world makes sense. Apart from Sphenodon punctatus, last survivor of the reptilian order Rhynchocephalia. If only there were a woman like it - cold, efficient and brutal in love, but also able to feed off small animals, inhabit the breeding burrows of certain small petrels and be in possession of a vestigial third eye. Zoologist, M (51), possibly a little too close to his work. And his mother. Box no. 8643.
I intend to spend the summer stewing over failed relationships. You can join me if you like, but know now that you'll never live up to Sandra, Jackie, Dawn, Helen, Karen, or Peter. M, 37. Bitter, bi-curious, Bebington. Box no. 5762.
Today we are kittens, but tomorrow we are tigers. Confused zoologist (F, 34). Box no. 0539
Attention male LRB readers: 'Greetings, Earthling - I have come to infest your puny body with legions of my spawn' is no way to begin a reply. F, 36 - suspicious of any man declaring themselves in possession of a 'great sense of humor'. Box no. 6413.
These are all really clever and brilliant, I wonder how successful these turn out to be in fostering romance among the British Intelligentsia...