“a caller reported a coyote walked onto her property. She said she could hear several neighborhoods dogs barking.”
“a caller reported a bat was in her house and landed on her head.”
“police received a call from someone who was being chased by an aggressive turkey.”
“a caller asked to speak with an officer regarding a bad experience with aggressive geese following him. The caller felt the issue was a public safety concern.”
“police received a report of a group of turkeys creating traffic issues and attacking cars.”
“a caller reported their neighbor had installed a security camera that was aimed directly onto the reporting party’s deck.”
“a caller reported that she was chased by a coyote.”
“Police received a report of a driver traveling up and down Mason Terrace while throwing what appeared to be bird seed out the window. The caller reported the driver does this every day, and the caller is unsure whether the driver is trying to feed wild turkeys.”
“The manager of Publick House called to report the entire restaurant began coughing. The manager believed someone might have sprayed something in the air before leaving. The restaurant opened door and windows and people stopped coughing. The manager reported that no one there needed medical attention, but the staff still wanted to speak with an officer.”
With all the hoo-hah about rigged admissions to prestige colleges, I thought I would add a very long-term reflection on the process.
My Father was Amherst Class of 1912 (yes, he was born in 1890). His whole interpretation of what a college education meant was just, duh, accepted by me as a little kid, though resisted when it came time for me to do the thing myself.
For Dan Miles, the product of a relatively old-elite family in MA, a college degree certified your presence in the higher WASP orders. Very few were intended to get them.
For Milo Miles, the product of a relatively farmland-elite family in MT, a college degree was what the majority of high-school graduates who had their shit together needed for at least a middle-class future.
I’ve mentioned on Twitter how the news of a gay-rights demonstration at Amherst kept my dad from insisting I go there (that wasn’t all — he sensed that there was more freedom of choice for young-uns at the end of the ’60s). I decided that “going away” to college would shred my worthwhile MT roots (there’s more to it, but Nunya), so went to both MSU Bozeman and U of M Missoula.
I got the degree, with a couple buffs added. Dad died the next year (at 85). I’ve always thought that part of it was that he was determined to hang on until I got that college certificate, which meant that my work life would be taken care of from then on. At once a nice and nasty dream.
We checked out the Empresses exhibit at the Peabody Essex Museum today (yeah, I’m sorry we didn’t get out earlier so I could plug it before its final week) and aside from the most wondrous silk stitching I’ve seen in my life, I was stuck with a couple zoological-perspective revelations.
First, the symbol of the Emperor is the five-clawed dragon, the symbol of the Empress is the Phoenix. I noticed that to bolster the real-world actuality of the imaginary birds, they were always painted (and stitched, and carved) the same way (long neck with crested head, long legs, some peacock aspects to the plumage) and often in a natural setting — a bird among birds.
Second, it blew our brains how a different cultural attitude toward an animal can change its representation in art. I knew bats were considered good luck symbols (because of no more than a weird word coincidence), but did not realize how much a different connotation, even perception, of an animal could alter its representation in art. There were lots of bats with beautiful curly wings and cute, whiskery faces. And then some utterly wild ones that had white wings, pink heads and blue bodies (more like butterflies, really). Concluded that these were understood to not be realism in any way, but their own sort of ideogram.
[Single most astonishing object: the head-on-both-ends dragon seal of the final Emperor. It was not melted down like all previous ones because he was the last Emperor. Weighs 40 pounds. Incredibly detailed, utterly ferocious monster.]
There’s going to be a public meeting (on my birthday, no less) about turning a defunct bar in Coolidge Corner (about a 10-minute walk from our house) into a marijuanna dispensary. That’s progress, I guess. Doesn’t make up for all the years the stuff loomed over my life like a cop with radiant eyes. But, hey, there’s no question it’s an improvement over a hooch hole that was notorious for selling booze to college kids even if they were shitfaced.
Here’s the scoop.
PS: I must note that the Globe added an excellent tidbit — because of its riotous, drunken atmosphere, the place was nicknamed “Scary Mary’s.”
but owning a car in MA is good practice for the nasty corners of Purgatory.
At 5:46 p.m., a caller told police she believed her bed was taken and replaced with a different bed.
At 1:29 p.m., an anonymous caller reported that a vehicle let out five turkeys onto Centre Street.