I think positive feedback's important. People bitch a lot about the weather, but when it's as nice as it's been—and to my mind it's been pretty nice—seems like mum's the word.

So here's a shout-out to, um, whoever makes the weather:

To all the methane-producing cows out there, to the big-rig and SUV-drivers, the slash-n-burn farmers down south, the coal-burning energy industry up north, and last but certainly not least, to you and me:


It was actually cooler than normal, but with the much warmer than normal winter—with its precious little snow (my garden was under water for the whole month of February)—it all evens out in the end. Isn't global warming great!

I took a nice stroll in the Public Garden after lunch with my new friend Werner. Visiting from Hamburg—city of over 2,300 bridges! More than Amsterdam and Venice combined!—he was delighted by the squirrels and could not believe they come right up to you and vogue for pictures.

They don't come up to me anymore, though. I think I've got a reputation. I always pretend to have food for them, but then I never do. Word gets around, you know.

It's a little like tipping.* If you know you're gonna be going back often, tip generously. If you think you might visit again someday, why not do the same, if the service is good? If you don't intend to go there ever again,
round up if you dare. But if you do, and then you end up going back some day—don't come crying to me when you find a loogie in your sandwich where the mayo should be.

Because they didn't know Werner they posed for a few pictures with him, hoping they'd get some little morsel in return. They didn't.

I get the feeling this happens a lot. Hopefully, they won't get organized.

It's not very likely. In fact we witnessed a marvelous little scene while we were there that showed why. One squirrel had horned in on another's territory, which got the offended squirrel all riled up. He set about chasing the offending squirrel, and they tussled.

Then they ran into a gaggle of geese, a number of gawky goslings among them. The geese started hissing at the tussling squirrels, and all hell broke loose.

While delighted with the squirrels, which apparently they don't have in Hamburg, Werner was not so impressed with the geese. But no one really likes geese, do they? I mean, really. Discounting those with no personal knowledge of geese who say things like, "What's not to like?" and "I love all animals!" of course.

As I said, the goslings were in that awkward they're-so-ugly-they're-cute phase:


But all I can see when I look at them is foie gras.

Werner is more compassionate. He told me he will only eat eggs from free-range chickens, because when they sort the eggs for new laying hens, they toss the males into a grinder that minces them up for mink-feed. Minks are vile, ill-tempered animals, too. And all I can think of when I see them is stoles.

"Imagine!" He said.

Well, it's hard not to when you've just described the process with the elaborate pantomime that always accompanies such descriptions. You've noticed that, I'm sure. That whenever people talk about, say, gavage, the process of force-feeding geese for foie gras, they will end up violently stuffing an invisible goose.

When Werner told me about the hatchlings in the grinder, he assumed the posture and countenance of an evil egg-hatching assembly line worker, picked up an invisible egg, cracked it open, inspected the invisible chicken for boy parts (I don't know how you know, but he looked on the invisible chicken's underside), shook his head and grimaced, and tossed the invisible chick into the invisible grinder with an irritated look, like "another one!" I could almost hear the grinder grinding away.

Then came the invisible bowl of mink-feed, which the evil assembly line worker proceeded to carry over to an invisible—but no less ravenous for being invisible—mink.

It was positively gruesome. Heebie-jeebies doesn't even begin to describe the sensation.

And the gender issue. Well, that's discrimination, innit?

I have no choice but to go free range, do I?

The rest of the walk was far less eventful than all that, thank goodness. There were some buskers on the bridge. A cute little trio—violin, dulcimer (I think it was) and guitar. Very hippie-dippy.

At the other end was that scary old dude in the paper hat who has a karaoke machine and sings Sammie Davis Junior songs. You know the one. One day it was a very creepy version of "Candy Man"—especially creepy when the kids' chorus kicks in. This afternoon it was "Singing in the Rain," over and over again.  Althoug it wasn't raining.

Then there were some tourists running around and flailing up to people and demanding to know if they were Anshel Mandelbaum, or somebody. I have been accosted on Boylston before by fat, middle age tourists on a "treasure hunt" who asked if I was someone I was not. And if I had been I would not have told them I was anyway.

Just when you thought they couldn't make tourists any more annoying than by putting them in giant nearly indestructible amphibious vehicles and ordering them to quack at pedestrians as they barrel through the narrow streets of Back Bay nearly running people over right and left, they find a new way!

I mean, really? Who's idea is this? Isn't it against the law? Harassment? Stalking? Disturbing the Peace? Assault?—oops, no, sorry, that last one's my bad.

When we saw them tearing across the lawn, we scrambled to the nearest hiding place...


...and waited for the danger to pass, or for one of them to have a coronary. I hope that whatever reprehensible organization is responsible for these "events" has liability insurance, because these folks don't look like they're in any shape to be running around like that, and one of them's gonna drop dead right at Anshel Mandelbaum's feet one of these days, mark my words. And was it worth it?

Now, I know some of you gripers and groaners out there whose specialty is to gripe and groan about how other people gripe and groan about things (which makes you lower, not higher on the food-chain, by the way), will say:

"It's The Public Garden, dude. If you don't want obnoxious tourists attacking you, go someplace private. I mean, jeez, what do you expect?"

And that's precisely the point. I expect for people over the age of four to act like it. But I know that's a lot to ask.

Anyway, once they'd gone off to find their next clue, we came out from hiding and continued our stroll, and a fine time was had by all.
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*Just so you know, I usually tip twenty percent. Not because I am such a generous sort, although I like to think I'm not stingy with what little I've got, but because depending on who I'm with I have to admit I am prone to math anxiety when calculating tips, and twenty percent is a nice round number which is just two times ten percent.

Sometimes, feeling devil may care I give fifteen, but that's an extra step. Ten percent, and then half that and then add the half to the whole, and then add the sum to the cost of the meal.

If I am feeling really daring I give eighteen percent, which means no little shortcuts: multiply the meal total by .18 and then add it all up. But then I feel like, they should be paying me. Christ, what am I, their accountant? It's irritating.