I took a stroll through the Boston Public Garden this afternoon. The squirrels were fat and rapacious, and frankly a little frightening.


I had about fifteen of 'em on my tail the whole time I was there. You know how they love nuts. But I know I wasn't the only one in the garden today. And I tried not to stand out. Sometimes I talk to myself, but I made sure I acted like I was talking to someone on my cell phone. (That usually conceals that nervous tick, too.)

I was in no mood to fight off greedy squirrels, though. It takes some discipline, but just ignore them and they'll leave you alone. I know it's hard when they're so darned serious and so darned cute. And this time of year they're bigger whores than usual. They were making little squirrel pyramids and doing the electric slide for me—all with those serious little faces and those big bushy tensed-up twitchy tails—and all in the hope of getting some little morsel out of me. Me. I mean, you can't squeeze blood from a turnip, know what I'm sayin'? Once they sussed me for the stingy bastard I am (I don't give to squirrels or panhandlers, as a rule, though I can admire their work ethic) they just cursed at me ("cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k-k!" as Beatrix Potter put it politely) and skirred off. Just like the panhandlers, in other words. But a lot cuter. But only because they're smaller. I mean, can you imagine a panhandler-sized squirrel?

Anyway, I wasn't there for them, as cute as they are and as admirable as their work ethic is. No, I was there for the weeping beeches and the weeping pagodas, and to a lesser degree the weeping willows. Have you noticed how many weeping varieties there are in the BPG? Ever since seeing The Fountain, I've been in that weepy kind of place. I haven't actually been weeping, you understand. Just like these trees aren't actually weeping. They may not even be sad. Like fat people aren't always jolly. And skinny ones aren't always mean. And the sexy ones aren't always getting all the sex they might be. Not that that's the case, mind you. Just an example.

I don't know what the willows and pagodas would have to cry about, really, but the beeches in the BPG do seem to have a genuine grievance. They're probably weeping because they've been all slashed and gashed and carved up something awful:

Now there's a tree that needs a hug.

The pagodas have been poodled-up a bit. They're not weepy at all. At worst they look a little vexed, but by something vague. Like "injustice" or "suffering" or "mortality," or whether they should buy the (RED) MOTORAZR or the (RED) MOTOSLVR phone to cure AIDS in Africa, or whatever. If you want to know the truth, they look downright chipper to me:


Still, they're charming enough little trees. What I love is if you go up right under them and look up at that tangle of branches, and squint a little, you see this:


I think it looks like a Jackson Pollock. If you don't see it, just squint a little harder. Here are a few more to try on:


Art is everywhere.