away from me and toward everyone else, which I hate

This is not good news. Or is it the best news?

I think Boston buying Pawtucket would kill me and maybe kill McCoy Stadium, which is part of me as much as concrete and steel can be part of blood, tissue, and hair. And cartilage. And stomach lining. And ear wax, whatever the hell that is.

And then what's going to happen to Tamburro and Schwechheimer?

I feel like step one of Corporate Takeover is EVERYTHING IS GOING TO COST MORE.

And... Hey, do you remember what my tipping point is? The one thing I said would make me turn my back on Pawtucket forever? DO YOU RECALL THAT SIMPLE SYMBOLIC THING?

The french fries. Change the french fries and I will burn it down to a cinder.

I'll be back later. I have a lot more to say but today I cannot.


je suis desolee

It's hard to find in a bleak, zig-zag city like Woonsocket, but there's a sand-colored church on a hill on a one-way street that has an unrealistic view of everything. You can see Providence and the bay and the slow, white sailboats like the ones on the quarter.

You have to be careful where you park because the priest keeps close watch. Next to the church is an old building with a bad steel bridge behind it. I would not recommend driving over it.

Nearby the mill houses are empty and blackened. The factory is no longer in use, but the bitter smell is still there. Like welded metal. It was a toxic avenue that they really would like everyone to stay away from. I did not think people died in those houses, but in the 60's there was some kind of chemical incident in the big brick factory, one of those old employers that kept families fed.

On sunny days on the weekend, families come over from Massachusetts (Blackstone, Millville, Uxbridge, Bellingham) to see the view, which dazzles, and the modern ruins. It hurts and it draws you in. You can't conceive of it. You can't even photograph the story. Well, I can't. Maybe you can.

In the days of ironworking and textile weaving and lunchpails and overalls, the men played 19th century baseball. Mill versus mill in Woonsocket, giving birth to people like Nap Lajoie. The Comets played at Island Park. It's the projects now, where telephone poles break and wires dangle by metal siding and the repairs are not a priority, because it's the projects.

Sleek, smart people don't like going to Woonsocket, a perfect example of entropy. I can see it fraying and fading and one day it will break apart from everyone, an ice floe, and drift north until it melts away entirely. Do you know who will be carried away?

No, you don't, because you've forgotten them already.