Bostonista Gets Scared, Really Scared
Over the weekend, Bostonista went up to New Hampshire for what was supposed to be a relaxing White Mountain experience. We booked a superior room in the venerable Mount Washington Resort, a century-old grand hotel with incomparable views of the snow-capped Presidential Range, recently completely refurbished. Having stayed there before, I spent the drive up prepping my fellow editor for the establishment—it’s old, it’s grand, and the hallways look exactly like the endless, over-scaled, and decidedly creepy hallways in “The Shining.”
Sure enough, when we left the elevator that evening and made our way to our room, she turned to me and did her best “redrum” imitation. And that’s where I figured the joke would end.
After dinner in the huge dining room, serenaded by a pony-tailed gentleman playing Disney’s greatest hits on a grand piano, we headed back to our room. We got ready for bed, she climbed into hers, but I was still wandering around, checking my email, brushing my teeth. Then the overhead light went off, on, off, on, off. It wasn’t a flicker—it was rhythmic. I looked at her. She shrugged. I went over to the switch and studied it. Did it have a timer or something, she asked? No. It was a simple switch. So I turned off the light, went to bed, and didn’t think anything more about it. (more…)
Over the weekend, Bostonista went up to New Hampshire for what was supposed to be a relaxing White Mountain experience. We booked a superior room in the venerable Mount Washington Resort, a century-old grand hotel with incomparable views of the snow-capped Presidential Range, recently completely refurbished. Having stayed there before, I spent the drive up prepping my fellow editor for the establishment—it’s old, it’s grand, and the hallways look exactly like the endless, over-scaled, and decidedly creepy hallways in “The Shining.”
Sure enough, when we left the elevator that evening and made our way to our room, she turned to me and did her best “redrum” imitation. And that’s where I figured the joke would end.
After dinner in the huge dining room, serenaded by a pony-tailed gentleman playing Disney’s greatest hits on a grand piano, we headed back to our room. We got ready for bed, she climbed into hers, but I was still wandering around, checking my email, brushing my teeth. Then the overhead light went off, on, off, on, off. It wasn’t a flicker—it was rhythmic. I looked at her. She shrugged. I went over to the switch and studied it. Did it have a timer or something, she asked? No. It was a simple switch. So I turned off the light, went to bed, and didn’t think anything more about it. (more…)
Bostonista was in China last week. Well, actually, just me, and just Shanghai. With over 21 million people, it’s now the largest city in the world, and its population is exploding, apparently through mitosis, given that the Chinese are only permitted one child per couple and must donate the rest to charity.
While we here at Bostonista appreciate innovation in all areas of commerce, the one thing we never expected to evolve is what happens to our fabulous remains once we’ve shuffled off this mortal coil. We figured our options were to be cremated and sprinkled at some favorite spot or to be buried in our favorite outfits. But for those who can’t tolerate the idea of a pedestrian afterlife, there’s something new for you.
