Disaster on our hands

By Brian McGrory, Boston Globe Staff, 2/9/01. Reprinted sans permission.

When I came across the calamity, the scene of nearly unspeakable horror, I reflexively swerved to the side of the road, bolted across four lanes of downtown traffic, and shouted for survivors to run for their God-forsaken lives. Fortunately, this being City Hall Plaza, there was virtually no one around.

Spread out before me on this windswept night was a jumble of poles, wires, stones, and slats rising sinisterly from the plaza's snow-covered bricks. I wondered if some forgotten piece of Skylab, some wayward hunk of the Mir, had been flung toward Boston by the unforgiving hand of fate.

Why us, I shouted toward the heavens. Why?

Amid the debris, I spied a series of iridescent lights slowly changing colors from chartreuse to magenta to -- whoa, dude -- cyan. It was alive, this heap, not carnal but extraterrestrial.

''What have you done with our mayor?'' I screamed.

My mind filled with sickening visions of space aliens telling Tom Menino, ''Take us to your leader.'' When the mayor responds, ''I'm the leader,'' they torture him with the admonition, ''How dare you tell us such an outrageous lie.''

Then I saw a banner containing the words that will forever remain burned in my brain: ''Community Arcade.''

Of course.

So this is it. This is the project that our city leaders have spent $2.7 million of our money to build, the place that is supposed to revive the most desolate piece of land in the entirety of downtown Boston. All of which inspires the most horrible thought of all.

The officials who brought us this arcade are the same ones we've entrusted to oversee the design and construction of the Seaport District, as well as the new parkland that will be built when the Central Artery is torn down. May God help us all.

It's been said that a camel is a horse designed by a committee, and it seems that this arcade is a disastrous hybrid of many good intentions and too many limitations. If the theme really is nautical, as the designers had in mind, then it is that of a shipwreck.

Add to this disaster the fact that the mayor said yesterday he won't even push a Boston museum for the property, and his aides are looking at only minor improvements on the periphery of the plaza. Defeat is at hand.

A few things need to be done, fast. Alex Krieger, the architect, should offer a public apology for his work, preferably not at the arcade itself but at a place where people might actually gather to listen, like the trellised park at Post Office Square. After that, everyone can come together and hug.

Then Menino should be urged by city godfathers to revive some semblance of his plan to build a hotel on the plaza. The mayor has been beaten down by persnickety federal bureaucrats who don't want their precious JFK Building falling into shadows, and by city councilors more concerned with process than outcome who regard this vast wasteland of brick as sacred public ground.

But a key change has occurred in the past several weeks. Andrew Card - Governor Card, he would someday like to be called - is now White House chief of staff, and he is capable of bringing his federal minions to heel with a single call.

Any observer need only walk the plaza from one barren corner to another, gaze out at the absurdity of the arcade, and view the ''For lease'' signs on the adjacent stores and offices to realize city officials have repeatedly and irreversibly failed.

So sell it off. Sell part of the nine acres for millions of dollars as part of a master plan that requires a lush, privately financed park the size of Copley Square.

Let developers build condominiums or apartments with skyline and harbor views. Inject life into an area that's been lifeless since the day it was christened. And allow city councilors to take the proceeds from the land sale to refurbish parks and build affordable housing.

And where to hold the rally if the Red Sox win the World Series? What a great problem indeed.

Brian McGrory's e-mail address is mcgrory@globe.com

The Fall of the House of Shih

The House of Shih, a Monmouth Junction, NJ landmark for a generation, is no more.

I first visited this Chinese restaurant off Route 1 near Princeton while visiting my aunt, who lived a few miles from it. I was probably about ten years old, and at the time I couldn't keep a straight face when anywhere near it.

I don't remember the food being anything remarkable. I don't remember it at all, in fact. I do remember that it was deserted the afternoon we first went there, other than us and the very warm and friendly Chinese people working there. Then some more Chinese people came, who we assumed were just some other customers. Apparently they were friends of the owners, and some of the staff came out and joined them at a table, enaging in lively conversation. They were having a great time, so much so in fact that some of the waitstaff brought out a big basket of string beans, and the whole table -- guests and all -- joined in snapping the ends off. I have to remember this the next time I'm reluctant to have company over because my house needs cleaning.

Anyway, the restaurant with the funny name is now being replaced, according to my sister Jen, who lives very nearby. If I was still 10, I'd be spending hours thinking up what name could possibly replace this, probably laughing my ass off to the point of delirium. I'm sure you can put your imagination to work and think of a few yourself.

[Lest I be culturally insnesitive, our slightly embarrassing questions to the waiter revealed that "shih-shih" is a friendly Chinese greeting, something like our own "hello." I just wonder if anyone told them...]

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© 2001 Peter Nersesian. Why on earth would you want to steal any of this?