So I have the cleaned-up post over at bostonist, now let’s get down and dirty about my hate for Massport, the Dig, and I-93 in general.

Start with the universal, work to the specific, right?

Boston drivers: has there ever, EVER, been a time you took 93 and didn’t get stuck in traffic? At least a little tiny daub of odd congestion? If so, you’re luckier than I, because I ALWAYS get stuck in traffic on 93. Last night, for example, katsumi and I were making our way back from an exausting round of shopping at IKEA. Ten thirty at night, heading north into the city, and somewhere around exit 14 we start to see brake lights. ten fucking thirty at night, stop & go. After crawling along for another twenty minutes, we finally arrive at the first lane closure. Another fifteen, we hit the second. Ten minutes after that, we come upon two construction workers austensibly disassembling a bridge.

I wondered, as we drove slowly past the requisite six cop cars, ambulance, and fire engine you find at any MA roadwork site, what was the impetus for the bridge deconstruction? Was it part of Mitt Romney’s call for more inspections? Was it part of the faulty bolt problem? Or was it, like so many efforts, just one more unnecessary projects cooked up by our friends in the state office? Whatever the answer, I really didn’t give a shit, because it was now eleven fifteen, we had a carful of cheap shit from China, and I hadn’t had any liquor or nicotine all day.

Oh hey, though, speaking of shit, the I-90 connector was closed indefinitely, so we couldn’t even get HOME in any SANE manner, no, we had to deal with the DETOURS!!!

having taken both the exit 23 and 26 routes, which snake you up and down surface roads in the most unlikely of manners, I was intrigued by the sign that read “Airport detour: take exit 27”

“27!” I thought. “that sounds like something fun and new.”

Yeah. Fun and new. Fun and new like a TRIP INTO PURGATORY.

We followed 93 over the Zakim bridge, around the bizarre pretzel of roadways, into the tunnel and then up onto the Tobin bridge, where the detour signs immediately shrunk to the size of playing cards. So there we were, 50 miles an hour on this fucking BRIDGE in the DARK, trying not to DRIVE OFF THE SIDE while we tried to read the MICROSCOPIC text. The exit materialized out of nowhere at all, sucking us down this long black ramp of death and dumping us in the middle of Chelsea. At the end of the ramp there was a nondescript sign suggesting that we might want to go right, or maybe the soft right, but then again maybe that arrow is actually pointing STRAIGHT, and then?

nothing.

nothing at all.

And I don’t know if you all were aware, but we live like FIVE SECONDS from Chelsea and it STILL took us 20 minutes to find our way home. God help any out-of-towners that might try to go that route, those poor bastards are totally screwed.