Word: cabs
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...brave, the body-glitter encrusted. Those Harvard students willing to break with the norm, eschew the banality of the Square and place their lives in the hands of Boston city cab drivers are few and far between. This week, FM sends one brave writer on a mission into Boston, to the sketchiest of all dance clubs, the notorious "Who's on First." This is her story...
...companions return from the rest room in giggles. The swarm of MIT men struck again, and this time one of my friends had offered her number, except, "I gave him yours, Alicia." Sweet. I decide that this is my cue to leave. We exit. On the cab ride home, my fellow adventurers and I come to the consensus that the club owners must have favored the old baseball analogy for hooking up: To be on first implies the possibility of scoring. When my phone rings at 6:05 a.m., and caller ID busts the sketch MIT guy, I'm glad...
...brave, the body-glitter encrusted. Those Harvard students willing to break with the norm, eschew the banality of the Square and place their lives in the hands of Boston city cab drivers are few and far between. This week, FM sends one brave writer on a mission into Boston, to the sketchiest of all dance clubs, the notorious "Who's on First." This is her story...
...Chester Cricket in George Selden's The Cricket in Times Square. Bookworms will recall the neighborhood around the public library in Bryant Park across town as the domain of Lucinda Wyman, the heroine of Ruth Sawyer's Roller Skates, who prowled the city a century ago, making friends of cab drivers, patrolmen, fruit vendors, junk dealers and confectioners--defying her class-conscious relatives. A pleasant place to lunch nearby: the Algonquin, onetime hangout of wits and wags Dorothy Parker, George S. Kaufman and Robert Benchley...
...parking lot of Good Time Emporium, the late-night crowd began to filter through the double-doors; the melange of characters included packs of greasy-haired junior school punks, permed teenage girls donning skin-tight Wrangler jeans and an occasional preschooler in an XXS patent leather jacket. The cab driver refused to use the word "emporium," insisting that my friends and I were mistakenly visiting his old billiards hang-out, "Good Time Callie's." The towering marquees, however, confirmed that we were entering the famed den of Somerville carousal and inflated Michelob paraphernalia. Before gaining admittance, I was asked...