Punisher for gluttony
Some vegetarians are adorably waifish, others are lumpy and profound. I proudly lump myself in the latter category. I have no tongue for mutton, but I’m a glutton for glutens. Wherever I’ve lived, one of my first priorities has been to find where all the bakeries are hidden. Foley’s Gourmet Bakery, in the corner of Monument Square next to Longfellow Books, has long been one of my favorites. It was opened, in 1997, by baker Ed Foley and his wife Molly. In 2014, the Foleys passed the business to Ed’s longtime protégé, Andrea Swanson, and her husband Dan, who kept the name. Foley’s offers a wide variety of pastries, ranging from apple shutters (puff pastry dough with apple-pie filling; you really should try one!) and enormous éclairs to a seductive selection of oversized cupcakes and cookies, including my personal favorite, the hermit cookie (a chewy, savory-spiced delight with raisins). The bakery also has a small selection of homemade soups and sandwiches. On Sundays, Andrea offers baking classes to the public. She also provides vocational training to students at Portland Arts and Technology High School (PATHS). The Swansons are doing their part, in many ways, to pass on the culinary gifts they’ve received.
My love of food is matched only by my social gluttony. On the third Monday of every month, the husband-and-wife team of Dm Jones and Tim Cross host Primary at Flask Lounge, on Spring Street. The DJ-driven dance night focuses on new wave, synth-pop and ’80s post-punk. During a special charity food-drive edition of Primary last month, Meredith Hillman (a.k.a. DJ Foxy) helped lay down the sounds and raise the crowd’s spirits. I love Flask Lounge for its unabashed eccentricity, but I bet even normal people would have a good time there!
Politicians and other assholes feel they have a mandate to pervert the common good. Such reprehensible tendencies are only kept in check by a dedication to defiance. In this spirit, the cooling air of fall gives me license to indulge my frumpy and unkempt fashion sense. And though I’m an unwashed anarchist, I often find myself embraced in the fold of the socially mobile. On Friday the 13th of October, I went to the State Theatre for the annual Damnationland film fest. The place was packed. The films, locally produced excursions into the creepy and outré, were ostensibly “horror,” but the audience’s frequent laughs showed just how closely related horror and humor are. Both genres rely on surprising the mind with the fresh and unexpected, tricking you into emitting either a laugh or a screech.
The fest finished early enough for me to sneak into Empire to see the reggae band Royal Hammer. Many summers back, I used to go to The Porthole, on Custom House Wharf, to watch Royal Hammer rock an oversized crowd on the patio. It was there that I met fellow Royal Hammer–stalker Elise Knowles. Now Elise Bower, she and her husband Jeff were at the show and it felt like old times. Royal Hammer is a local musical “collective” that includes Mike Taylor on vocals and guitar, Lucas Desmond on saxophone, Dave Noyes playing trombone, Robbie Cooper playing keys, Nate Soule on guitar, and Gary Gemetti behind the drum set. Reggae shines a light on life’s rust so you can polish it up and make things better. It helps the listener realize that their problems are usually not that big in the grand scheme of things.
A week later I saw the 19-piece big band The Fogcutters at Portland House of Music. The Fogcutters give big-band jazz a contemporary feel with notes of funk and soul. Chas Lester and Megan Jo Wilson are the two lead vocalists. This music demands a lot of focus and a high standard of excellence, but the two singers looked like they were also having a lot of fun.
I’m used to people I don’t know complimenting me for my obnoxious street-side sign-holding, but at the Fogcutters show an unknown lady came up and said she was a fan of my Bollard columns. It’s a good thing I’m such a humble person. I’m also glad that the wheelchair gives me a free pass to be as much of a wall flower as I want. The venue was full and the band played fast, sassy measures of fleshy pleasure that got the bodies moving and awoke a prehistoric thirst in me. The show ended kinda early, so I had an excuse to go to Flask again. Sadly, I was unchaperoned by any attractive women. Could it be that embracing foolishness is what leads us down the crooked path to wisdom?
