Brattle Book Shop at 9 West Street in Boston, Massachusetts. One of America’s oldest and largest used book shops, the Brattle features an outside sale lot, two floors of general used books, and a third floor of rare & antiquarian books. Housed in a three-story building in the heart of Downtown Boston, The Brattle Book Shop carries an impressive stock of over 250,000 books, maps, prints, postcards and ephemeral items in all subjects. In addition to its general used and out-of-print stock, The Brattle Book Shop also maintains an inventory of collectibles, first editions and fine leather bindings in its rare book room. (photos by Lance Gagnon)
This is, without a doubt, one of the most magical places in Boston.
If you visit me, I will take you here. We will peruse old books and be merry. It will be wonderful.
THE BRATTLE BOOK SHOP!
I went here on Sundays—not every Sunday, but a lot of them—with my dad. We’d take the T in and I’d find some book to read and he’d talk with the owner and buy some old books. Some of my favorite memories involve that place.
Guy at bar I am flirting with: Yeah, I have a pet. I have a cat.
Wicked Drunk Me: A cat! What is it’s name?
GABIAFW: (sort of awkwardly laughs)…it’s name is Bitey.
WDM: BITEY! I have a dead possum named Bitey.
GABIAFW: You um, you—
WDM: HE LIVES ON OUR SHELF.
——————————————————————————
Here’s the thing: we DO have a dead (stuffed) possum named Bitey. And he does live on our shelf. Also, this is what I do to flirt now. Also, it worked.
Hey guys, I have a question: you know what’s really fucking cool? Boston. Our fair city. Guess what happened here like two hundred years ago. Oh, you can’t, because you’ve never done the Freedom Trail? Okay, I’ll tell you. OUR FUCKING COUNTRY’S INDEPENDENCE WAS FUCKING FOUGHT FOR HERE. NO BIG DEAL. A bunch of raggedy-ass farmer-soldiers took down a shitload of red coats while wearing some fucking overalls or whatever the colonial equivalent was at the time. Like it was nothing. Bam. Did it with their fucking eyes closed. And now there’s a red-brick walking trail that leads you to sixteen nationally significant historic sites. Museums, churches, burying grounds, several totally phallic objects, many, many plaques about patriots, a fucking ship—somebody call Nicholas Cage, cause we got some NATIONAL TREASURES all up in this.
Want to hear something that will blow your fucking mind? MOTHER GOOSE WAS REAL. And we’re gonna see her grave (downer) and then we’re gonna talk about the fucking nursery rhymes that she wrote that little babies STILL like to listen to (siiiick). We’re gonna go to the church that Benjamin-fucking-Franklin went to on a semi-regular basis when he wasn’t banging a bunch of French ladies/ being sassy in France/Philadelphia, respectively. We’re gonna see the Paul Revere House, with its sick as hell Georgian architecture and “typical of colonial living arrangements” interior design.
Speaking of Ben Franklin, guess what kind of statue we’ll be seeing on this tour? One of Mr. Franklin himself. I am SO down to thank him for inventing the glass harmonica and the post office.
Hey, there’s this little quote I know. It’s goes a little something like this: “No taxation without representation.” Oh, you know what I’m talking about? You know how that’s like a major TENET of our country? Oh, cool, cause we’re gonna go to where it ORIGINATED—you know, it’s just Faneuil Hall, the completely-fucking-impossible to spell douchey bar district in Boston. And speaking of douchey bars, we’re definitely getting a beer at some point, because this trail takes like three hours and, I don’t know, that’s good enough of a reason for me.
And then we’re gonna get some pastries in the North End and enjoy the crisp fucking breeze of a beautiful October day. We’re gonna see the shit out of some sites, friends. This Monday. Be there.
It wouldn’t be the first time or anything, but I AM alone, which gives it an air of “Hey, maybe you’re a mess,” which is probably not helpful to really anything that’s going on in my life. But I’m drinking this really, really good pinot noir, (thanks, kind of upscale Ball Square liquor store) and I usually hate pinot noirs. And it’s pouring out, and I’m also listening to music that I would be truly embarrassed to admit I listen to if I found myself standing outside of a party with this guy, and NOW I’m gonna take adorable pictures of myself with that stupid photo thing that’s on my laptop. I’m feeling better about all of this than perhaps I should.
Bam.
it’s getting weird now, right?
oh my god, storycorps
I was walking from Davis Square back to my apartment today when I saw my friend Hing, sitting on a bench, eating an ice cream. This kind of thing has happened non-stop since I moved here. I knew, logically, that this would happen. It’s a pretty tiny neighborhood and everyone I know who lives here (there are a lot of people. A lot.) lives within ten minutes walking distance from me. So I figured I’d see people I know pretty often.
But I didn’t think it would happen all the time. I mean, every time. I’ll walk through Davis Square and run into my best friend, some dude I made out with several drunken times, my neighbor, random acquaintances. This, I think, is what it must be like to live in a tiny town, only with almost exclusively twenty-somethings, all of the benefits of a major city, and (probably) less suffocation.
For the most part, like tonight, I love it. Hing and I hung out for a while and then headed back to my apartment and had super awesome friendship time. (This means he got drunk and watched me cook and eat dinner, and then we assembled my immersion blender.)
There are the more awkward parts, I guess. I mean, I don’t really like seeing former make out partners on a daily basis. But I don’t think that’ll ever outweigh the good parts**.
In conclusion, yayyyyyyyyyyyy!
**Hey, maybe this is because I have so many stupid things happen to me on such a regular basis that things that would be terrible for normal people are not awkward for me. Like, I’ve built up a tolerance, a la Wesley in The Princess Bride, and what would ruin you is like a regular day for me, whatever.
Spring is for breakups (everything else is changing, why not this too!)
Summer, for sluttiness (it’s too hot to cuddle/have emotions! but not too hot to MAKE OUT ALL OVER ALL THE BARS!)
Fall is for casual dating (let’s go apple picking! let’s observe leaves and their colors! jack-o-lanterns!)
Winter is for LOCKING THAT SHIT DOWN AND SNUGGLING. (obviously)
I’m falling behind! pun not intended. Also, do you think I can make this into some kind of children’s rhyme type thing?
“Being grabbed by a letter is unappealing.”
Just sayin.
