Election roundup: Mistah Speakah worries about his car in the South End; Janey may have gotten ahead of a free bus

Is that where all the mayoral candidates fight to see who can throw who into the Muddy River?

This guy represents Quincy Point. Not exactly Elysium.

His districts covers at least two superfund sites, an oil tank farm, and lies right across the street from a gas plant which has yet to immolate Hingham school children despite dire warnings from the Bare Cove Mommy Tank Corps.

I'll take a spot at Kava over DQ on 3A any day.

Honestly, the 32 would have been the better bus route to do the free thing with. It is like the step child of the Forest Hills bus stops and pre-covid was the most crowded. Going down HP Ave at rush hour deserves a free bus ride.

of one, but I parked one car and then another on the street in the South End for the better part of 20 years, and neither was ever stolen. Each was broken into only once, presumably by an opioid addict looking for something easy to shift. (The nearby Waltham Tavern http://mcslimjb.blogspot.com/2009/04/lesson-in-workforce-management-from... had a pill saw for users too hard up to buy a whole tablet.)

Each time, the miscreant missed a baggie of parking-meter quarters in the console and a quality full-size umbrella, basically came up empty. Caveat: those cars were battered if reliable sedans, an ancient boxy Volvo followed by a decrepit Camry, not the most attractive targets.

Counter-example: an earlier ride, a hideous shit-box Toyota hatchback, got stolen when I lived in the Back Bay, from a resident space behind the Harvard Club on Newbury. That one had some valuables in it, like a brimming 72-count CD carrier (it was the late 90s) hidden from view. The car turned up two days later a few miles away, stripped of all removable contents (but not parts), and looked like the thief's last move was to drive it at speed headlong into a brick wall.

The cruelest cut there was the loss of some rare hip-hop bootlegs I have never been able to replace. I like to think the motley assortment of artists in that box was baffling, maybe edifying, to whoever yoinked it: Public Enemy live, Cocteau Twins, Thee Headcoatees, and Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit in the mix.

On the plus side, fear of getting their luxury car stolen from the South End prompted my wife's loathsome aunt and her husband, right-wing bigots both, to flee immediately after the last bite of dessert of a home-cooked holiday dinner, mercifully their sole visit. I have rarely savored a Fernet-Branca as much as at that moment. Once in a while, one can be grateful for panicky suburban dumbfuckery.