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****Clara Goes to the Laundromat

The first thing Clara did upon entering the laundromat was give long looking-ats at all three of its current patrons: A chubby Latina sucking away at a massive plastic cup and flipping through a magazine; a young black man standing hunched over a large textbook listening to an i-Pod; and me transporting clothes from washers to dryers, unusually slovenly in baggy clothes and an absurd guacamole-colored cap.

After assessing our collective worth as human beings, Clara motioned for her husband to hand her the small cloth bag of laundry. She moved slowly over to the line of idle washers and opened and closed the lids, making tisking noises over the uncleanliness that a washing machine can attain after a long day of washes.

She stood at maybe 5'2" with a frown etched into her sour face and a healthy look that comes from a lifetime of self-depravation in the name of God. Her husband shadowed her silently; he was a wizened gaunt man who watched Clara's every move like a dog giving his master quiet obedience. They were dressed as though they were either lower-middle class or just stingy.

Finally she began taking cotton clothes out of her bag and placing the one by one into a washer worthy of her $1.75. It happened my second load of clothes just finishes the final spin cycle in the washer next to Clara's, so I went over to it and began gathering my wet towels.

Clara visibly jumped and looked at me, aghast. You would've have thought I had just stuck a gun against the hairless nape of her neatly-folded neck and demanded she hand over the t-shirts and hankies. Her attention decimated by the sheer aplomb with which I removed my clothes from the washer, Clara watched me as I dumped my towels into the dryer and poured quarters into the slot. She kept moving as if to go back to her clothes, but would jerk back to look at me. Weirded out and trying to show that I didn't care if I had become the object of her psychosis, I hurried out of the laundromat to go back home...

...and returned in exactly 42 minutes to get my clothes. Clara was using three separate dryers for her meager clutch. A woman so into micro-managing the process of clothes drying should know better than to repeatedly open a dryer to test the merits of each. As I walked carefully past her, I could feel her eyes boring into my back. My towels were nowhere near dry, so I fed it two quarters and began folding the dry load of socks and undies.

I glanced in Clara's direction and she stood there, fists on slim hips, legs slightly parted, and her hard little eyes following my every motion. When I began placing my folded laundry into a large trash bag, she audibly snorted, as if hardly surprised that such a person used a trash bag to do laundry (I happen to appreciate its non-porous, durable material). I could not bring myself to be frightened of this woman and her husband, who sat perched on a stool and who also looked at me. I began to think that maybe I did a really bad thing, that unloading your washing machine while another patron loads theirs next to you is some serious breach of laundromat etiquette.

Seething with impatience for my towels to give into dryness, I picked up a stray newspaper and began reading, keeping the old woman in the corner of my eye. She finally backed down from her warrior stance and went back to overseeing her drying, changing machines twice in ten minutes, looking over at me constamtly to make sure I wasn't sneaking up on her again. My towels dry enough to finish on a drying rack, I tossed them into another trash bag.

Seeing that I was about to leave without getting satisfaction of revenge, Clara stood in the center of the aisle, purposely obstructing my path to the door. There was no way to get around her without touching her, so I stood two feet in front of her without meeting her eyes. What do she expect me to do? Apologize? Knock her over on my way out and prove my vileness as a human being?

"Clara," her husband said softly. For a moment she didn't move, then turned back to her clothes and out of my way. She watched her clothes through the glass of the dryer riding the sides until almost near the top, then soaring to the bottom and rising again.

****Movie Review: Hotel Rwanda

A certain amount of moral fortitude is required to choose to lose yourself in a movie about genocide. Yes, it is important to acknowledge what happened in Rwanda in the mid-1990s: Hutu military and militia exacted widespread murderous revenge on the Tutsis, and the world did little to stop it before over 800,000 people were killed. But it is a bit depressing to watch a tale of genocide unfold before your eyes while knowing in the next theatre over, fellow movie-goers choke on their popcorn giggling over inanity like Hitch.

Hotel Rwanda is the true-life story of Paul Rusesabagina, a suave Hutu who is left in charge of a swank resort hotel after the genocide begins. Normally the hotel caters to the elite and foreign dignitaries, but soon it is overrun by refugees, including Paul's family and neighbors, whom he saves in a harrowing scene in which he bribes a military officer for their lives. Paul goes to great lengths to protect his "guests" and relies on the greased palms of many an official to keep the Hutu militia at bay. In this, the movie is compared to an African Schindler's List, but such a comparison underplays his accomplishment. His family's safety is his highest priority, and Paul Rusesabagina could have abandoned his "guests" to guarantee the safety of his family, but he cunningly ensured the survival of over 1000 Tutsis and Hutus.

It is difficult to look past the subject matter and evaluate the movie as a movie. If it suffers from anything, it is my own emotional fatigue. The movie is superbly acted, well-scripted, and successfully balances horrific scenes of violence with moments of humor and tenderness. Enough background and details are provided to allow Hotel Rwanda to serve as a historical overview of the Rwanda genocide, and the movie pulls no punches at the failure of the West to intervene in the early, bloody days. Never again! we cried after the Holocaust, a cry that will ring hollow and bitter to anyone who sees Hotel Rwanda.

****The Return of 'Toine

Long-time readers of this here chronicle of my mundane life may be familiar with my irrationally passionate loathing of Boston Celtics general manager Danny Ainge, who traded the Only Celtic who Ever Mattered days before the start of the 2003 season. Toine. Antoine. Antoine Walker, the most charismatic and competent all-around player on the team, was traded for a bunch of yahoos all because Ainge couldn't take Toine's attitude. Without the prospect of Walker's patented wiggle after a flawless 3 pointer, I lost all interest in the Celtics.

But now, Toine has come back to Boston, saved from a dismal season with the Atlanta Hawks: Despite his much-publicized rancor toward director of basketball operations Danny Ainge... Walker was in a conciliatory mood yesterday. ``There's a lot of things both of us said that you would like to take back... We never had a relationship to begin with, but we can build one now (here)'' Oh yeah.

Commence wiggling.

****Movie Review: The Merchant of Venice

The Merchant of Venice is among Shakespeare’s most curious works. Back when subjugating Jews was an accepted European pastime, the play was considered a comedy because it ends with the ever-novel cross-dressing mistaken identity plot and multiple happy couples rushing off to bed. Time has transformed Merchant into a tragedy in which the audience empathizes with the Jew Shylock, robbed of his fortune and outcast from society, all for seeking justice in the form of a pound of flesh.

Al Pacino pulled off an interesting Shylock. I half expected him to shout "I'll have my bond! Speak not against my bond! Attica! Attica!" The Jewish accent was comical at first, but as soon as he belted out the "If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" speech, I was convinced.

Worst. Portia. Ever. I don't know who this Lynn Collins is. This native Texan invoked the most annoyingly breathy English accent I've ever heard, and lacked any amount of fortitude and authority that the character of Portia deserves. According to her IMDB bio, she's had "extensive Shakespeare training" as well as appearing in movies like "13 Going On 30" and "50 First Dates." Shall I compare thee to a blight of boils on this flick?

The Merchant of Venice tops the list of every half-hearted Shakespeare's fans favorite plays because it dwells on controversial themes like anti-Semiticism and cross-dressing. Hey, nothing says entertainment like a vengeful Jew craving a pound of a man's flesh for the forfeit of a bond. And then, the ending, in which the audience is witness to the happy frolic of three young couples and the utter destruction of said Jew. All's well that end's well? Or am I alone when I pity Shylock and despise the happy couples for having fate, good lucks, and inherent societal advantages on their side?

Movie extras:

• The scenes in which Portia's suitors, per her father's will, must win her hand in marriage by choosing the correct Lead, Gold or Silver chest are simply delightful.
• After his daughter Jessica runs off with a Christian and several chests of cash, we get Pacino bellowing "My daughter! My ducats!" which I swear isn't in the actual play.
• The opening scene in which we actually see Antonio spit on Shylock was kind of cool... just to make obvious the slight which the casual viewer might otherwise miss.
• We get lots and lots of nipples displayed by the coquettish hookers of sixteenth-century Venice. At least two dozen pair of nipples.

****Are Kids Making Me Crazy?

I'm fixated on kids this week, probably because it's February school vacation in Massachusetts, and the streets and trains are filled with groups of idle but thrill-seeking teenagers with no grasp of proper conduct in crowded urban situations. Not to mention that I work a block away from the Children's Museum, so when I emerge from my lair, I'm greeted by hordes of parents clogging the sidewalks with their broods and baby carriages, and traffic snarls of fecklessly navigating minivans in the pay parking lot adjoined to my office.

This February vacation business has always bothered me. Kids get off a whole week of school not six weeks after Christmas, when Spring Break is just around the bend? What is up with that? And why was phenomenon not around in PA when I was growing up?

Yesterday on the Red Line after a long hard day of work, there's this young mother with two kids in the 7-10 age range, obviously coddled souls who gallop around the moving train under some pretense that they're super-terrific because they don't fall. Then the boy positions his palms over his mouth and blows simulated farting noises, and both of them crack up. He looks around at all of the commuters, and then does it again. "David, please don't do that," his mother says mildly. The brat commences to do it repeatedly, loud and pronounced farting noises over and over again not five feet away from me. "Please don't do that," his mother says with none the more firmness.

Lady, why the hell are you saying "please?"

****Are We Making Kids Horny?

When the scandalmonger media airs a public figure's sexy dirty laundry, parents always gotta bleat "how the hell am I going to explain this one to my kids? This person must be punished because their debauchery became elevated to an issue of national importance!" Like American kids pay attention to the news.

This week, taped conversations with George W. Bush made before the 2000 election by a family friend -- who just happens to have a book out (here) -- indicate that Bush smoked marijuana: "I wouldn't answer the marijuana questions. You know why? Because I don't want some little kid doing what I tried," Mr Bush says. When Mr Wead said Mr Bush had publicly denied using cocaine, Mr Bush replied, "I haven't denied anything." So Bush just wanted to protect the kids! He could do way more good than harm by offering himself as evidence that cocaine can make you a blithering retard.

Why do we try so hard to protect kids from what they will inevitably discover on their own? Is it for the benefit of the kids, or so we don't have to stammer out explanations about sexual acts or why so many humans delight in partaking in chemicals that the greater good deems harmful? I'd have a harder time telling my theoretical children why people are homeless, or why the world needs weapons of mass destruction, or why society has latched onto reality television. Blow jobs, no problem: To the man, it feels really good. To the woman, maybe she'll get a nice dinner. Infidelity, no problem: There are some things men would rather not do with the mother of their children. Marijuana, no problem: Some people would just rather not have the capacity to remember the details of their miserable little lives.

Society's hang-ups about discussing sex with young teenagers lead to thing like this: The exclusive Milton Academy in Massachusetts expelled five 15-year old male students for receiving oral sex in a locker room from a female student. According to school officials, "the five to one ratio created a pressurized situation for the 15-year-old student and was coercive by nature" (here). That 15 year olds would give and receive oral sex in an awkward situation doesn't surprise me. It's not like young teenagers can experiment under the guise of mutual love and affection.

I'm not saying the girl was probably not overwhelmed, but had any amount of physical force been used, it would have gone beyond "coercive" and "pressurized," it would have been called rape. While the 5-on-1 ratio sounds scary to adults, it's possible that the girl participated willingly and even enjoyed it because it made her feel powerful. Let's face it, that's one of the many reasons women have sex. It sounds like they asked her and she consented, and because most adults can't imagine that any Milton Academy girl would participate in an oral gang bang without being intimidated into doing it, we have to blame the boys... who (I'm sorry) were unfortunately just being boys.

I have no real conclusions about society's simultaneous obsession with shielding children from things like sex and drugs and the prevalence with which teenagers engage in both activities. Maybe last year's Super Bowl Halftime show will drive large numbers of children to have premarital sex, but maybe they would have done it anyway, and maybe they wouldn't have done it at all if they didn't get the feeling that being naked was an act of true societal defiance.

****Poetic Kibble

Ulumbo, a Cat

Like us he had his
quirks, but more
indifference.

In the winter he loved
stoves, in the summer
little birds.

Sick and indifferent
to death as to us.
Death he did himself.

--Rutger Kopland, translated from the Dutch by James Brockway

****Happy Happy Presidents' Day!

Is it getting tedious how every single freaking minor Monday holiday, all I do is complain about how life is unfair because everyone else has a three-day weekend and can take advantage of outrageous Presidents' Day savings whilst I decay in my office?

Well, not today. It's Presidents' Day and six fresh inches of snow are predicted. Try test-driving a pick-up truck in that, suckers!

****Hunter S. Thompson

Wow (here). I'm stunned. Though the bulk of his work is irrelevant and often self-indulgent, Thompson has always been one of my literary heroes. In his own words...

Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of ''the rat race'' is not yet final.

--Hunter S. Thompson

****Gay Simpsons Character

Patty. I knew it had to be Patty. Sort of obvious, but it's cool they picked a major character instead of a recurring character or the already-outted Smithers. But the episode wasn't worth the publicity, because her fiancee Veronica turned out to be a man, and so Patty's gay marriage didn't even take place.

(Shame that the quality of the Simpsons has dipped to the point that I only feel compelled to watch an episode because I read an article about the betting odds on each the characters in the Atlantic Monthly. Patty was the forerunner, Homer was the long-shot.)

****McDonalds: Harvesting Evil

A fascinating article in the NYT takes a look at McDonald's wink-wink nudge-nudge offerings of so-called fresh produce (here).

For its skinned Apple Dippers, which are sold with caramel sauce in packaging featuring Ronald McDonald jogging, the restaurant expects to purchase 54 million pounds of apples. The result is that apple prices will not be falling anytime soon, as the usual abundance will be considerably less abundant. And don't even get me started on the prices of grape tomatoes, which McDonalds is buying for their premium salads.

Once I dreamed of the day my fellow Americans would embrace produce rather than rely on highly-processed foodstuffs. But now that a giant corporation is rabidly consuming produce, dictating which varieties growers should cultivate, selling it alongside their greasy sugary concoctions under the guise of healthiness, and driving up the prices for those who choose to buy and prepare their own meals, well, I say... let them eat french fries.

Next up on the menu? "We're looking at whether we can leverage the Apple Dipper concept for carrots," an executive threatened.

****So no one told you life was going to be this way...

Ah, who doesn't love a good Friends re-run... One of the old ones, before they all started pairing off like shipwreck survivors on a desert island? Truly an ageless humor, reliant on the personality flaws of well-defined characters, self-knowing wit, and a cute little monkey named Marcel.

Friends once inspired unconscious aspiration. As a college kid watching these fabulous 20-somethings, living out their dreams in a huge dorm-like apartment near Central Park, these were the people I secretly wanted to be.

Friends re-runs are depressing because they're the same age as me. So I'm not watching the people I want to be when I get older, I'm watching the people I want to be now. Well, not really, but they sure do make my life look considerably less wacky and eventful.

Admittedly, I aimed a little lower in my career, but Friends never taught me that when I'd get home at the end of the day, it would seem like I'd been away for days, and that last thing want to do is lounge around in designer clothes to receive neighbors and guests into my fabulous apartment. I never predicted that going out for an after-work coffee would be absurd, because I'd been drinking coffee all day at work to keep myself in a state of cat-like readiness.

Like Thursday night was my roommate's birthday. There was no apartment full of anonymous glamorous people tucking into one of Monica's neurotically catered spreads over witty party banter. Instead, a dozen psych ward workers mingled with various local bartenders and waitresses over Bud Light and cocktail wieners while debating how to turn Scattergories into a drinking game. Hey, I had fun.

****Nylon 66 Show, Sunday February 20

Almost exactly a year ago, Nylon 66 played O'Briens in Allston and it snowed eight inches. Still, people came out in droves and didn't regret a second of it. Except maybe when they were shoveling their plowed-in street-parked cars to get home. This Sunday at 9pm, newly nuptialed drummer Byron and freshly single bassist/vocalist Eric are back with new guitarist Pat and a more-serious commitment to practicing. The forecast is clear and Monday is President's Day, so why not spend Sunday night drinking cheap beers and letting Nylon 66 blow your mind into pathetic little shards? Seriously, they are awesome. The songs are punky, rocky, bluesy, and totally original. I'm going even though I will probably see hot rock girls crawling all over en after their set.

****Jersey Colleges Behaving Badly

The Grease Trucks, a cluster of food trucks that serves the Rutgers University community, has been forced to cover "inappropriate sandwich names" (great name for a sketch comedy troupe) from their menu, including the "Fat Bitch" and "Fat Dyke," which the LGBT organizations has found offensive (shocker... here).

Okay, think of your own joke about eating sandwiches called such things. My parents read this site.

...

Elsewhere in Jersey, a Princeton University publication has apologized for publishing a list called "Top 10 Holocaust movies I've never seen but would like to" (here). In the list, Savage and Buerki — who are both Jewish — altered mainstream movie titles like "Dude, Where's My Car," "A Weekend at Bernie's" and "Meet the Fockers" to "Dude, Where's My Family," "A Week at Bergen-Belsen" and "Exterminate the Fockers."

In outraged response, another student said "Mocking the genocide of the Holocaust offends universal moral sensibilities... Such a statement implies a denial of the unspeakable horror and inhumanity of mass murder of a people."

I think a Princeton student would be able to tell the difference between "mockery" and "satire." And denial? Where does that come from?

****These Boots Are No Longer Functional for Walking

There comes a time in every person's life when they must part with the first cool pairs of boots that they've ever owned. Hopefully, they are not wearing them at the time. My time is now, after an all-too-brief 12 years of company. Purchased at Trash and Vaudeville on one of my youthful commuter rail jaunts to South Street in Philly with my friend Amy, the boots served me well throughout my high school years. Part of a heel broke off, the leather lost all form and softness after being repeatedly worn in the rain and snow, but I obstinately hobbled around in them. Then, college forced me to get practical and they were regulated to a duffle bag full of sentimental clothes, rendering them permanently unwearable. While I would love to hold onto them forever, the fact is... it's effing stupid to cling to the past by keeping a pair of gross boots in your closet! When I'm older, will I ever think: Damn, I wish I had held onto those cruddy black leather boots? I can't really it the end of an era, because I haven't worn them in about seven years. Besides, I saw a lot of men wearing the same style. Men who looked like they wanted to be punk cowboys. Ew. Still, one of the cool things about having your own website is that you can immortalize stupid sentimental crap that you would otherwise feel guilty about throwing away. Next month: the plastic case of tiny store-bought seashells that I bought implusively on a trip to Ocean City about ten years ago.

****The Gates

Former NYC Parks Comissioner Henry Stern has inside knowledge of and an astutue take on the "The Gates, Central Park, New York City, 1979-2005" (here for article):

The remarkable aspect of Christo's work is not its striking beauty, although it is probably as attractive and tasteful as orange vinyl bars with hanging shower curtains can ever be... The distinction of The Gates lies in its unique site, Central Park, an iconic location important to urban history, landscape architecture, and real estate values in Manhattan. Also noteworthy is this artistic producer's enviable persistence over a lifetime in gaining consent from the powers that be to have his work displayed in prestigious public places. The show is labeled "1979-2005," which informs us that it took a generation for the backward provincial authorities to see the light and grant permission for the exhibition.

Here for my "The Gates" experience...

****Love, African-American 80s Icon Style

Lately, you can't turn on the news without hearing about lawsuits involving the respective perverted proclivities of Michael Jackson (here) and Bill Cosby (here).

Is it just a coincidence that Michael Jackson and Bill Cosby were the prominent African-American entertainers of the 1980s? We loved them so much that their race was secondary. And that's never the case with black celebrities in this country. They transcended the almost burlesque image that black celebrities typically adopt in order to win a white audience. I'm thinking Gary Coleman, Stevie Wonder, and Emmanuel Lewis here. They didn't have to crusade for Civil Rights to win respectability. Both Jackson and Cosby were seen as succeeding on the strength of their hard-work and talent. We may smirk at the ridiculous popularity of Thriller and The Cosby Show now, but back in the 80s, white kids like me as well as everyone else lapped it up like Jello pudding.

So to witness the disgrace of both men is a little sad. but Bill Cosby, drugging and raping women? I can't reconcile this penchant with the lovable, wise Dr. Huxtable. Nor do I want to try.

Michael Jackson on the other hand... I avoid getting caught up with celebrity court trials after the OJ Simpson case left me stunned and sickened. It turns our justice system into a circus, and mocks the whole idea of impartial jury. Corey Feldman has jumped into the fray of possible Michael Jackson victims - and has been subpoenaed (here). Celebrities who may be called to defend Jackson include "Hollywood legend Liz Taylor and singers Stevie Wonder and Diana Ross... Bee Gees Barry Gibb, music producer Quincy Jones, Backstreet Boy Nick Carter and his teen pop idol brother Aaron (here). Yeah, some character witnesses!

People who love sausage and people who believe in justice should never watch either of them being made. -Otto von Bismarck

****Dude, I Can Hear the Colors

A blind graduate student who had difficulty interpreting weather maps is developing software that translates color into sound (here).

****The Gates

Hey, who is that blonde?

The wind picks up.

Harlem Meer.

****Sweating the Small Stuff

It was a routine weekday morning: Wake up, drink coffee, eat snack, go to gym, work out, return home, shower, dress, apply at least a dozen hygiene and beauty products, pack lunch, walk to T, catch Red Line, walk to office. And on my daily trudge across the Fort Point channel, out of nowhere it occurred to me that I neglected to apply deodorant.

This failure to properly prepare my armpits for a public appearance alarmed me extremely. What happened? Somewhere in between of smearing good-smelling moisturizer on my shoulders and chest, and smearing SPF age-defying moisturizer on my face and neck, the smearing of sweat-busting deodorizer on my armpits had failed to occur. I must be losing my mind. Next thing you know, I'll be leaving the house barefoot with nary a clue.

And what to do? Should I go to the CVS in Downtown Crossing and buy another stick? But what if that 15-minute roundtrip walk causes me to sweat, and even after applying the deodorant, the raw perspiration sticks to my clothes and offends the nostrils of my co-workers who dare get too close? But what if I go without deodorant? I had meetings in oft-stuffy conference rooms. Surely no one would be able to think about anything except how bad I stink. There goes my career.

I improvised and snuck into the bathroom to slather lavender hand lotion under my arms. All morning the purity of my pits nagged at me. I broke down at lunch and bought another stick, which I will leave at my desk so that I never suffer such pure ridiculous panic about my armpits again.

****Ante Up

Once a game of high-stakes big shots and disgruntled husbands needing an excuse to get away from the wife to puff peacefully on a stinky cigar, the game of poker has trickled into the mainstream, helped by overly-glam movies such as Ocean's Eleven and Rounders, televised poker tournaments (with or without celebrities), and the national proliferation of casinos that has solidified gambling as an acceptable and almost wholesome pastime.

Inevitably, someone has to scream: "Won't someone please think about the children!" So here come the local news channels with their hard-hitting investigations into teenaged poker hounds, promoted with disturbing footage of tow-headed young boys gathered around a table, fecklessly tossing chips and grinning maniacally at their cards.

Many parents may be alarmed by the idea of their innocent child turning into a ruthless poker shark. They foresee little Johnny losing his shirt in all-night poker games with shadowy, menacing thugs, or imagine poker as a gateway drug that will lead to more undesirable behavior from Janie. But is poker any worse than other activities? At least it necessitates human interaction and protocol. There's a little bit of math involved. And even if Timmy loses his allowance, well, every hobby these days is expensive. He can recoup.

When our society starts to get uncomfortable about teenagers playing a card game, we should start to ask ourselves: What is it okay for teenagers to do? Not anything that might lead to them getting injured, drunk, arrested, or laid... which leaves homework, eating, and Top 40 radio. Dammit, let's make Poker a required class and hope some of these coddled robots turn into cunning, wily adults who can stomach risk.

My own father taught me how to gamble. By the time I was ten, we had exhausted all the fun out of Crazy Eights and Go Fish. He brought out his antique poker chips, rolled up his sleeves, and said "Ante up," a phrase that continues to thrill me to this day. Though not a gambler by nature, my father probably loved having an opponent who believed devoutly in the integrity of a pair of fives.

I am grateful he taught me the intracacies of poker. It's better to learn about it at home than on the streets. I went on to impress the heck out of everyone at summer camp, I've won at least 20 bucks in various poker games through the years, and I can always catch my father in a bluff.

Nowadays, I wouldn't play poker for serious money any more than I'd suck a Sucrets to get a sugar fix (another illicit childhood activity). Instead, I gamble in other ways. You should see my stock portfolio.

****The Burning Bush

****Super Bowl Reflections

It's all about the Kids

That "America the Beautiful" song melody before the kick-off was too much. I mean, Downs Syndrome kids are great, but when I'm slugging beers to stoke the flames of my inner football beast, do I really need to watch them stumble through choreography? I know that the network executives aim to be as inoffensive to the sensibilities of television viewers after last year's Halftime Peepshow, but to use retarded children to do their evil bidding is just wrong.

Non Sequitur

The WW2 tribute lacked context. Why honor WW2 veterans when US soldiers are dying in Iraq? And how tasteless to have Michael Douglas paying tribute to the military when his acting roles always involve infidelity and lechery. What, was Tom Hanks busy?

And what was with Bill Clinton and George Bush the First chumming around the stadium and stumping for tsunami relief in matching blazers? I realize ex-presidents are politically irrelevant except as pawns of their respective parties, and it's a great symbol of nonpartisan collabaration for a worthy cause, but it still pisses me off.

Buy This

Fox's kamikaze-style plugs all during the Pre-Game show enraged me. The commercials were either mini-movies featuring plot lines and character development, or a bunch of morons high on Diet Pepsi and Dunkin Donuts Mocha Raspberry Lattes.

Most memorable: The sexy Tabasco commercial hawking hot sauce with a bikini-clad woman as a direct metaphor for a piece of meat.

Halftime

Ah, how refreshing was the Ameriquest Mortage Halftime Show. Good clean family entertainment, not anything like last year's smutfest of sexual dancing and pasties. We got Paul McCartney bleating "Baby you can drive my car, beep-beep yah," and a bunch of white teenagers gathered around the stage pretending to be totally electrified, as if they're mad wild about Paul McCartney and listen to him, like, all the time. Let's all sing along to "Hey Jude," whoever the hell that is.

It would've been great if Sir Paul McCartney exposed himself during this year's halftime show. I bet John Lennon would've done it.

They Play Football?

Last night's game transcended what I typically expect from the Superbowl football game itself. Usually the quarterbacks play with caution. Lesser-known players are nervous; they fear making a mistake that could lead to them blowing the Superbowl, ending any dream of being a spokesperson for a local furniture or car dealership. Maybe because I feel passionate about both teams, but what an effing excellent game of football. I can't remember such a fist-clenching game. The first quarter was an opera of riveting turnovers, with both teams playing some gutsy, wild football. How about McNabb's pass to Pinkston in which he evaded about three dozen potential tackles to cannon the ball to a sprinting Pinkston firty yards away, leading to the first touchdown of the game?

The touchdown knocked the Patriots out of their offensive stupor, and they fought back and did me proud. After the Patriots scored their second touchdown, I thought the Eagles would fumble the game completely, so when they tied it 14-14 after a series of solidly excellent plays, I was delighted.

Halfway through the fourth quarter, the score was what I predicted as final, 24-14, Patriots. And then I was confident of a Patriots victory, and I felt really bad for the Eagles and their wonderfully raucous fans, especially when the Eagles continued to give their all through the rest of the game and scored another touchdown to make it 24-21, giving New England a bit of worry all through the two minute warning.

The Eagles are an amazing team but the Patriots are just better. If a football game could really be won with spirit and enthusiasm like Hollywood teaches us, it would have been the Eagles by 77. No doubt the Patriots went to the Super Bowl ready to play, but by and large New England fans just showed up for the game and the victory party. I ache for the Philly fans who wanted this.

****My Pre-Superbowl Post: The Prediction

New England is so jaded by recent major league sports success and so cocksure about a victory tonight that my vocalized desire for a Eagles win has been indulged. People think it's cute, and ask me if I want to bet a lot of money on it.

But I won't bet because I'm 98% confident that the Patriots will win. I'm calling it Patriots, 24 to 14.

I hope I'm wrong.

****Grimace

****Walgreens Shopping Spree

It was a miracle: On the very same day that I intended to transfer my prescription to CVS from the now-faraway Brooks (but slacked off on the way home from work), I found a piece of mail from Walgreens addressed to Current Resident, in which I was offered a $20 coupon if I came in with a new or transferred prescription! Woo-hoo! Drugstore shopping spree!

As I was picking up my prescription, next to the pharmacy window I spied a open package containing a single "kitchen utility knife" tucked behind a large display of Excedrin. It concerned me a bit, but taking action would've involved me picking it up and presenting it to the clerk. So I left it there with hopes that the Walgreens pharmacy won't be robbed by drug-seeking toughs who strategically stashed weapons all over the store.

Suddenly having to procure $20 worth of Walgreens products severely rattled me. I wanted to be practical but I couldn't think of what I needed except for dental floss. I decided to spring for la creme de la creme of floss, Johnson and Johnson Reach ("soie dentaire avec flouride" says the package haughtily). Then, I decided I needed a new toothbrush, one of those highly-designed futuristic ones.

I managed to resist the ENTIRE aisle of Valentine's Day candy, helped by two young boys who loudly begged their beleaguered mom for a treat: But I need it! one wailed while the other touched and squeezed everything.

The "grocery" section is just actually snack foods and overpriced canned foods. On sale for 2/$3: 5 pound bags of animal crackers, directly across from a display of diabetes testing supplies.

The rummage bin of D-cups bras directly in the center of the store was a bit disconcerting.

I browsed intently through the houseware section, and contemplated a toaster. It would do the job, but the idea of using a toaster from Walgreens kinda disgusted me. I can't explain it. It just loses its legitimacy.

After strolling through the face cream section for about ten minutes, I forced myself to buy one: Almay Kinetin Skincare, from the advanced anti-aging series ("gamme anti-âge avancé," so you know it means business), on sale. I then rounded out my $20 with a tin of Altoids. Ah, indulging my inner consumer with free stuff. Thanks, Walgreens.

****Science Stories that Provoke My Inner Luddite

• Scientists are developing a digital mirror that will assess the amount of gluttony and sloth in your lifestyle and "then, at the touch of a button, it will reveal the future you, five years on" based on your habits (here).
• An inventor is using human DNA to develop "artificial chromosomes that lets robots feel lustful and might even let them reproduce", with the aim of neutralizing any future robot threat to humanity: “If we can provide a robot with good - soft – chromosomes, they may not be such a threat” (here).

****T Intimacy

Courtship

Crowded Red Line lately. The college kids are back in Boston full-force with their lavish bulky back-packs and slack grasp of T etiquette, all refreshed and energized from a month home with the parents. I fought my way through the frantically "dinging" doors to find myself mouth to mouth with a 30ish man in smart business casual, our faces inches away. Had I not already been engaged in forced intimate contact with six other men at the time, I wouldn't have squirmed away from him so violently that nearly knock over my other suitors. Murmured apologies fly.

Approaching an Old Friend

The crowd slightly decompressed after Park Street. Standing next to me was a Asian girl in thousand dollar pants. A tall Asian man came up from behind her and grabbed the bar over her head, his body up against hers. He then started breathing heavily on her neck. Her shoulder fluttered, her head turned, and she gave a delighted murmur. "Jimmy, it's so good to see you! Oh, it's been years!" If an old friend approached me on the T by panting on my neck, a uncontrollable kicking mechanism would have rendered them quite sorry and wishing that a simple tap on the shoulder would have sufficed.

With One's Self

Several years ago on the Green Line, I witnessed some young college kid discreetly but undisputedly rubbing his crotch, eyes fixed on a pert bottom straining through tight shorts inches from his face. I looked around and saw an older Hispanic woman with a tired face quietly observing the man's activities. I heard another woman make a disapproving noise. He kept it up for a few stops, as if were on his couch watching the Playboy channel instead of a trolley packed with torpid strangers.

With One's Mate

Everyone can't stand public displays of affection unless they're involved in the show. College kids sowing their oats a subway platform is so repugnant. Look at you two young, carefree, hot bodies go. Ooh, neck frenching... looks fun! I'm so happy for you, and am grateful that share your passionate frolic with me. It only stings a little.

Copping Feels

Forced intimacy on the T is detestable to most, but a guilty pleasure for more than a few commuters. Hey, it's not my fault if that attractive stranger presses up against me. I couldn't help it if that butt grazed my hand. And if that man has to hold his laptop bag right there, well, might as well try to enjoy it.

****Cops Beat and Choke Diabetic in "Misunderstanding"

I read about this incident when it happened in November: An African-American charter school principal in Springfield, MA pulled into a convenience store parking lot after he started to suffer a diabetic attack. Five cops called to investigate broke the window of Douglas Greer's BMW, pulled him through the opening, called him a drug user, beat him, and shackled him, claiming that they believed his behavior indicated he was in the throes of a drug-induced high.

Yesterday, Springfield's police commission has voted 3-2 not to discipline the officers, calling the beating "a case of misunderstanding" (here).

Apparently it is considered good police work to assume that the black man who is incoherent and convulsing must be on drugs. Would this have been acceptable police behavior even if Greer had been on drugs? He wasn't a threat to anyone's safety except his own. He was obviously distressed.

And if he's not on drugs, well, heck folks: Misunderstanding. Black man thrashing around the front seat of his car and screaming... you can understand why the police felt impelled to protect and serve the public by beating, choking and kicking him.

****Roka Sleeps with the Fishes

Roka (here), one of my favorite places in Cambridge to get sushi for almost five years, is dead! I walked past it and workers were in the process of gutting the restaurant of all its beautiful benches and screens. Its goose sashimi is cooked.

I know it's absurd to ask for your pity over the loss of great maki. But I loved that place.

****An Axiom from the TV Show Cops

"Ain't no one gonna beat my sister unless he's married to her."

****Celtics Game