I happened to be down in the neighborhood of the Sox riots—er, I mean, rally—around noon today. My gym's right down there, and my plan for today included dropping into the gym, even if I had to take on Sox Nation to do it.

People were pretty well-behaved, considering. I figure any time you can get tens of thousands of people of the sort you're likely to encounter at a Sox rally together in one place and they're not carrying flags emblazoned with swastikas and shouting "Heil Hitler!" and there's no bloodshed and a minimum of general mayhem, well, why not? I wasn't really caught up in the spirit of the thing, but I don't begrudge fans their day in the sun (and what a beautiful, sunny day it was, eh?)...


This was the view from right outside the gym around a quarter to one. Nothing had happened at the corner of Boylston and Tremont at that point and the natives were getting a little restless.

And the lunch crowd from Saint James Shelter had just let out, which probably didn't help matters. I'm afraid many of the denizens of the neighborhood didn't know what the fuss was about just around the corner. This gentleman was preoccupied with the black-op helicopters hovering above the crowd and the hazmat vans parked all up and down the street...


There was this gorgeous kid in pajama bottoms and slippers wandering around at the edge of the crowd looking dreamily over the scene, too. Is there a mental hospital around there that I'm not aware of? Full of guys who look like Romain Duris? Please say yes. I may have just discovered my new calling.

I had a good look around. But there was nothing to see, really. I mean, Sox Nation in all its glory, but when you work in Back Bay and have a plot in the Fenway, you're in the heart of Sox Nation all the time anyway.

What I really like about these kinds of things is the empty streets leading to and from the parade route...


I didn't stick around for the hero worship. I didn't have my Coco Crisp jersey on (it's at the dry cleaners—spilled a beer on it during my "missed connection" date), and I knew if Coco saw me without it on, we would both be devastated. We have this thing.

I had business in Dorchester, so I rode off in that direction. And right around Franklin Square I looked up and saw this:


The skywriter went on to write a brief commentary, but I couldn't make it out before I found myself in traffic again, and was forced to turn my attention elsewhere. 

I had a little epiphany today.  I realized at least part of the reason autumn is my favorite season is because it's when baseball season ends. 

On another note.  I have had a well-documented hankering for Wiener schnitzel lately.  It so happens that Gaslight, on Harrison Ave. in the South End, where I had a late lunch, has it on their menu.  But they spell it "weiner schnitzel."  The whole menu's in French, so maybe that has something to do with it.  (But for those who don't know, the Wiener in the schnitzel has to do with the dish's origins in Wien — that's Vienna to you and me.)

After a delightful warm beat salad, with my pint of beer at the ready I eagerly awaited my veal schnitzel.  When it came, it was about the size of a McNugget.  So, you can get veal McNuggets in Boston.  FYI.

I guess schnitzel doesn't have to be hammered so flat it covers a half acre of frites.  But that's how they served it in my favorite little schnitzel dives over there. 

The waiter told me their sister-bistro Aquitaine's were bigger, but cost more, too.  Well, I think schnitzel is one of those things where size matters, so a trip to Aquitaine might be in order here in the not-too-distant future.