For the past seven days, the LA has been undergoing a dry spell. This city has sobered up and is going through a wit withdrawal. I hear from my city cronies that the sweats and body aches are of Pete Doherty proportion. And for those who don’t know who dopehead Doherty is — Google him and stop sending me e-mails about him.
There has been no need to roll back that last call one hour at the “Worthless,” “Dub,” “OC” or the “Slam …” (we’ll just leave that one alone). These fine downtown Lowell watering holes could rest easy this past week with Lowellita out of town.
That’s right, this Mill City chick jet-setted her faux tanned tail-end to an exotic location south of the border. Not the actual “border,” but the one that clearly divides this nation into two separate subcultures. I am entering “red” realm, a dangerous domain where Bush is not a punchline to a raunchy joke.
So watch out, Southerners, because here comes a Dunkin’s-drinking, Dice-K devotee, who tells you it’s wicked awesome that you don’t have to dial an area code to call your next door neighbor. If anyone asks where I am from, I will respond, “Red Sox Nation, baby!” — and when driving my rental, I’ll blare “Sweet Caroline” (the only acceptable Neil Diamond tune) as I bang a left into the packie for some Sammy’s.
I am going to stop now before this column starts sounding like a “You know you’re from Boston when …” spam e-mail or MySpace bulletin. But you should know where I am going with this. Whenever traveling outside of our own backyard, we get hassled about our New England-isms.
No, I won’t say, “Pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd” — not happening, don’t even ask. I also will not try to defend why our lives revolve around when the Sox are playing or explain why no one plans a wedding, camping trip, beach day or anything else when the Yankees are in town. Get over it. And it’s not funny to start using “wicked” just ’cause I am around.
I am sure that all this will take place right after my plane touches down in Albuquerque — say that five times fast after a few woo-woos from Hookslide Kelly’s. These incidents make me long for Lowell where little things, like how the Cox Bridge rocks me like a child while I have been sitting on it for 45 minutes during rush hour, are comforting.
When I return from New Mexico and see Cross Point Towers protruding from the Victorian homes scattered in the Highlands landscape, I can breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll also check my watch and make sure there is enough time to get a draft under the belted fans.
Home sweet home … e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.