The Good Life... a weblog about life, technology, and the Opera Web browser

If you were wondering, I'm currently being serenaded by my cousin in his apartment at UConn. Tomorrow I head to Providence, RI to hang out for a bit before I catch the 150 mph train back home.

Last night, my sister, myself, my sister's roommate, and her friend (Ed) went to Boston's North End for dinner. Dinner was at a wonderful Mediterranean restaurant, Alloro, where we were served the the greatest waitress ever. It wasn't her service that made her so terrific; it was her accent. She had this Italian-Boston-nasal-high-pitched thing going on--she was the stereotypical greasy mobster's girlfriend. After dinner, we went to a dessert place and I accidentally shared a $3.75 bottle of sparkling water with Ed. We just wanted tap water.

Walking around Boston, we noticed that most of the bars/clubs/restaurants had front windows that were open to the street, no matter the type of street. Everyone seemed friendly and was having a good time.

Overall, I'd say Boston is one of the nicest, friendliest large cities I've ever been to. It's certainly the city to visit if you need some hands-on experience parallel parking.

My sister's new roommate, Melissa, worked at an arcade on the shore in New Jersey for a while. The arcade was owned by a Mob boss. The job was minimum wage, so Melissa took up gambling to supplement her income. She'd bet anyone willing $5 that they couldn't eat five Saltines in one minute. Melissa never lost. Saltines are so salty that there isn't enough saliva in your mouth to break down the final crackers before time is up.

The Mob boss came by the arcade one day to check-up on business. He observed Melissa's gambling scheme and pulled her aside.

What's going on here, Melissa? (think Robert De Niro from Analyze This)

Melissa then explained the fun with Saltines.

You. I always knew you were a smart one. You're going places. You.

Though Melissa left the arcade a long tme ago, she's kept in touch with some of the employees. Several of them have mentioned seeing some guys in black suits enter a back room of the arcade followed by the Mob boss carrying a box of Saltines.

Strapped for time and in search for a small suitcase, I grabbed my late grandmother's suitcase and shoved my belongings in before running out the door to Syracuse and Boston, barely noticing the pungant mothball smell wafting from the suitcase. My late grandmother's suitcase reeks of mothballs. My clothes, which have been in the suitcase for several days, reek of mothballs. I'm surprised I haven't gotten any puzzling looks yet as I've walked the streets of Boston. I'm not looking forward to the train ride home.