November 11th, 2001
Got Plastic On My Mind.
How time flies. It's been an action packed couple of weeks. Halloween, parties in Boston, the end of daylight savings time (a.k.a. impending immutable darkness), more sleep, some house-sitting, anthrax, food and bombs, ect. I cooked up some salmon. Fucking television. I've enjoyed numerous glasses of Grigio. Daylight and night life are just bleeding by. But this is all water under the fridge. I spent most of 2000 writing about beverages, walking, and sunlight. Let's move on. Let's move on to the important issues.
If we Plymouthians had to name one Most Important event that has affected our community during the last two weeks, all 40-whatever-thousand of us would unanimously agree: the opening of the new Dunkin' Donuts on Route 44 has indeed made life worth living again.
Hmm. This is beverage-related. So it goes.
Allow me to briefly provide you with some background. My west-coast peoples who ain't been home in a while might appreciate this. All the Dunkin' Donuts in Plymouth have been getting spruced up lately. The mini-Dunkies in the Mobil station on Main Street got a face lift early last summer. Three months ago, the inside of the Dunkies next to Tedeschi's on Main Street was completely remodeled. Then the franchise in Kingston, next to Carmella's, was remodeled inside and out. Three weeks ago we saw the arrival of a new Dunkies next to Skippy's on South Street, complete with drive-thru. Yes, you no longer need to go inside Mayflower Food and Spirits to buy doughnuts. No more watching chicken spinning on the rotisserie while waiting for joe.
Then, to top it all off, the new Dunkin' Donuts opened on Route 44, right next the highway onramp. As I type this, the old Dunkies building is being dismantled: that site of so many 1 am coffee runs, so many 9:30 am customer lines. The spot where I once saw eight policemen buying doughnuts at the same time. The building where I once stole a giant cardboard-coffee-cup-cutout before the first Gantztock, while Dave and Josh waited in the Buick station wagon behind Cumbies. The location of semi-awkward run-ins with kids you never thought you'd see again. The Dunkies that had that really old-school lavender logo sign until 1993. The shop that taught me how to spell Donut.
That place is so over. I call the new building The World Dunkin' Donuts Headquarters, on account of its ill bank-like gigantism. This franchise features a drive-thru that goes on forever and ever, around the building, past a utility shed and through a recently-fabricated grassy "park". All of this makes for a long journey. You could swear you've been detoured into south Plymouth. Sometimes I pretend monkeys and rhinos are approaching my car as I drive, because it almost feels like I'm touring an animal safari-park. But it's worth it, because there are always like six girls working the window.
Fact: The Providence Civic Center, built in 1972, is now known as the Dunkin Donuts Arena. At least the Fleet Center and the Tweeter Center have names that you can almost pretend aren't corporate related.
After spending the summer exhausting the writings of Daniel Quinn, I've moved on to other socially and economically urgent reading. The following quote from Going Local: Creating Self-Reliant Communities in a Global Age, by Michael H. Shuman, reminds me of a few things I'm usually way too busy and confused to do anything about.
A third problem that mobile corporations pose for communities is the gradual destruction of local culture. The global rush to free trade through such treaties as NAFTA and the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) not only has lowered the quality of life everywhere but also has blurred distinctions between communities. Only with extraordinary zoning or planning measures can communities resist the onslaught of national and international chain stores, and even these legal limitations might be overturned by courts as property-right takings without just compensation.
The spread of the same brands, the same stores, and the same institutions has homogenized communities and dulled peoples sense of place. Community life simply becomes less interesting if the streets in Encinitas, California, look identical to those in Portsmouth, New Hampshire--or, for that matter, to the canals of Venice, where McDonald's now appears alongside the gelato stands.
I've been to the McDonald's in Venice - I ate there twice during the single day I visited Venice. Honestly. I've eaten at McDonald'ses in Paris and Bologna, as well. I'll never do that again, for a variety of good reasons. Gosh.
Why settle for second-rate, cookie cutter soul less third places? The spots beyond my home and work/school where I convene and connect with friends or strangers had better offer a little flavour, some comfortable home-grown toning for my thoughts and conversations. During my high school days in Falmouth, MA, my friends and I spent countless hours after class in Laureen's on Main Street. Hazelnut coffee with cream (no sugar) every time. I probably learned as much from those conversations as I did from school. Every Saturday morning during the fall of '94, I'd hit the Corner Deli in Plymouth before my shift began at Lobster Hut. I'd buy a coffee and an apple turnover, then sit at the counter and spend 30 minutes reading the History of Psychology, listening to the first Weezer album. Why go to Bickford's for breakfast when Percy's is right around the corner? People who drink at Applebees make me nervous. There's always an Our House or a Gilda's Stone Rooster nearby. Supporting local business is supporting soul, building community, and in the case of third places, it usually means you end up listening to better music while you drink your drink. Pizzeria Uno's has a curious knack for piping their restaurants full of oddly familiar no-name musicians doing recombinant knock-offs of pop/rock songs I can never put my finger on but definitely don't care for.
On the way to the Charlie Hunter Quartet show last Thursday night (11.01.01), the odometer of my '79 Granada hit 66,666.6 miles. It was that sort of evening. I remembered my digital camera, but forgot its compact flash card. It was that sort of evening. Luckily, it's not the first time this sort of thing has happened. The Hunter concert, held at the Sommerville Theater, was excellent. The drive home was relaxing. To round out the lingering evening, I stopped at the new World Dunkin' Donuts Headquarters on route 44, and went inside.
The place was exceedingly large, and lit with the usual generic sugar-crispy flourescence. Pink and orange. As I passed into the building through the odd glass foyer, I noticed that each wall of the main room was decorated with one large framed poster advertising a new Dunkin' product. "That's good," I thought, "because ill be kept posted on their latest culinary technologies. The next time I'm craving a Chai Tea and a Pizza/Egg/Bagel sandwich, I'll know to hit Dunkies first."
For a second I could've sworn I was stumbling into some kind of prefabbed modular truckstop after a long night torpedo driving Route 66 across the New Mexican landscape. In no way did the place feel like a part of my hometown. Inside, two twenty-year old kids stood hovering in front of the register. I couldn't tell if they were stoned or not. Either way, I figured they'd make for a good audience.
"This place is frickin' huge," I said in a mostly casual voice as I walked up behind them, glancing this way and that. They turned around, but didn't seem to hear me. "Go ahead," they said, moving to the side. One was blond, the other dark-haired. They were both dressed like Carson Daly. "We don't know what we want yet. You go ahead." I blinked, pulled my hands from my pockets, and continued forward.
"Hmm," I thought, as I approached the counter. "Maybe I didn't speak loud enough." I realized at that moment that I was completely unprepared to place an order to the Old Bespectacled Lady staring me in the face with a forced smile. I glanced nervously at the shiny new full-color Combo Meal illustrations hanging above. I eyed coffee rolls, muffins and dougheynuts before calmly asking for the same thing I always get:
"Medium cream only, please."
Satisfied with my ordering abilities, I decided to try again. While waiting for Old Lady to fetch my joe, I turned around, made eye contact with both young men, gave the place an obvious once over, and said clearly, "Man! You could throw a goddamn prom in here!"
Pause. Dead silence.
Blank, unintelligent stares.
Nothing.
Tough crowd.
I'm only lookin' for a half smile, or maybe an "I know, eh?".
Christ.
Is this thing on?
Once out of the building, medium-cream-only in hand, I paused to survey the scene. The parking lot looked like every new parking lot, in all its freshly molded concrete and asphalt geometric glory. The on-ramp to Route 3 south lay poised for takeoff only a few dozen yards to my left. Across the five lane Route 44 sat the recently remodeled Standish Plaza strip mall, complete with three acres of rolling parking lots, Staples, Stop 'N Shop, Marshalls and a free-standing modular Applebees, recently opened. There's a car dealership over there, too, as usual. I looked right, toward the new MobilMart/Burger King. I've been in there twice since it was built last year. I forget that place exists.
I was looking at unfamiliar elements of suburban sprawl in my own town. It was a concept I found hard to grasp, a set of buildings I'd never seen from that obtuse angle.
What happened to all the people, anyway?
