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A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking. ~Earl Wilson

So for the next week, I will be gone. I am getting on a plane and fleeing the East Coast. I don’t have to go to work, but they are paying me anyway, as if I am there. I am not bringing my laptop with me and will not be making an inane daily public declaration on this website. I will not set an alarm, though my biorhythms are so tuned I’ll wake up at 5:30am anyway. I will not engage in purposeful exercise and will eat ice cream for breakfast if I feel like it. I will not go through Monday wishing it was Friday. It’s this crazy thing called a vacation.

First, to San Francisco, to finally check out this place out. Then, to Phoenix, to watch my sister graduate with a Masters of Social Work.

(Laurie, I am so proud of you. You excel at everything you do and I’ve always looked up to you for that. I remember playing softball at the ARA fields, and we were on the same team and you batted cleanup every game. You were number 4, I was number 11, you played infield, I played center field… but I didn’t care how much I sucked because my older sister was the best player on the team. I remember Orchestra, when you were First Chair and Miss D’uloise or however her name was spelled talked about how talented you were on violin, and I meanwhile I was struggling to make non-irritating noises out of my viola… but I didn’t care, because my sister played like an angel. And now you are graduating, making me the least educated person in the family, but I don’t care because I am so proud that my sister has her Masters Degree.)

Posted in Trips.

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Movie Review: Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room

When future Enron President and CEO Jeff Skilling was at Harvard, he was asked by a professor: “Are you smart?” He replied, “I’m effing smart.”

Even if you are not familiar with the intricacies of the Enron scandal or are quickly bored by tales of white-collar criminals cooking the books, you should still see this stylish documentary to reflect upon the weaknesses of this system called capitalism under which we all labor. Yes, capitalism is great when it works, but only if everyone plays by the rules. As the movie is quick to point out, Enron is not a tale about creative accounting. It’s about the people, and these people are some of the most evil and greedy people to ever be in charge of a publicly-traded Fortune 500 company. (That’s pretty evil and greedy).

Let the California energy crisis be a lesson to all of us: The power industry should not be deregulated. There was enough power in the grid to prevent any of the blackouts that occurred in California, but Enron’s traders took advantage of the free market by ordering blackouts at whim, just to line Enron’s coffers with more sorely-needed cash. It was perhaps one of the most vile, reckless moments in 20th century business. (The movie also seems to connect Enron with Arnold Schwarzeneggar, but this is hazy at best).

The movie attempts to explain the behavior of Enron’s traders, who we hear joking and laughing about the blackouts in phone conversations. It showed footage from the famous experiment in the 1950s in which half of the study’s participants administered what they believed to be a lethal electrical shock to another “participant” because the scientist in charge told them to do it and took all responsibility. In other words, the traders and other criminals at Enron did what they knew to be unethical and illegal because their macho, Darwinist corporate environment permitted it. Hell, with everyone at the company focused on nothing but the stock price, and with Enron’s practice of regularly firing 10% of the lowest-performing employees, unethical behavior required.

If you do know a little about Enron, this movie will rehash what you know. I had read Pipe Dreams a few years ago, so I already knew about most of the story, but really dug the footage and the way the movie was edited. This wasn’t a Michael Moore-style skewing of the facts. The history of Enron and its bankruptcy is presented as it happens. There’s plenty of footage from company meetings (during which employees are urged to buy more stock by the very same top executives who are dumping theirs), taped interviews and news conferences full of boldfaced lies, creepy pans of the empty Enron buildings, the Senate hearings, and even taped message of thanks from Bush Sr. and Jr. to Ken Lay for helping with their campaigns. Things that make you go hmmm.

One thing that this movie made clear to me: The Internet Stock Bubble was not only fueled by the greed of some, but a basic ignorance about technology. All Jeff Skilling had to do was throw around talk about trading broadband and swear they had working technology, and the stock price quadrupled. I assume most serious investors understand the fundamentals of trading traditional commodities like pork bellies, but how many people really grasped what Enron was proposing to do? I found this interesting, having been on technology projects that have basically been proposed and specified by the good old boys in Sales and Marketing who like to sell what looks good on paper.

On the way home from the movies, my iPod shuffle once again showed its uncanny ability to be the soundtrack of my life: “Paint it Black” by the Rolling Stones came on. Very fitting, because Enron had nothing but red balance sheets and they painted them black. I listened to the song twice just to relish in its appropriateness, and dreamed of the day that Skilling and Lay have to face the facts and account for their white collar atrocities.

Is this movie good? It’s effing good.

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Pat Robertson

Yesterday George Stephanopoulos’s talk show played host to Pat Roberston, a man who considers overthrowing the judical branch of the government a religious crusade because they are liberals who are dismantling our nation’s Christian values. Why do people listen to a man who obviously un-American? Poor George. It’s impossible to argue reason wit super-religious people.

Apparently at wits end, George asked Pat a curious question that often stumps religious people for a concrete answer, about how he can reconcile the idea of a loving and mericful God with the tsunami disaster. Pat started by avowing his blief in God, but stressed that God does not control nature and believes in plate tectnics and earthquakes as being real natural phenomonen. Kinda a surreal moment.

Posted in In the News.

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Mariah Carey: Celebrity Regrets

While I ignore celebrity news except when it hits the news stands at an “Aliens Invade Earth” frenzy, I have always found Mariah Carey to be fascinating. The Cinderella-like rise to the top of the charts with record mogul Tommy Mottola ‘tween her legs… the crazy concert exploits… the bizarre and unhinged phone messages to her fans… and an all-time favorite, the Mariahisms (here).

(The glossary of Mariahisms ain’t exactly Esperanto, but anyone who communicates with these words is on a whole different level. For instance: BING BONG!: Used to quickly end an argument or conversation while still able to be funny. If I was exchanging of words with someone, and they suddenly said “Bing Bong!” and walked away, I don’t think I’d find it very funny. Grounds for a bitch slap.)

Anyway, a friend and I were recently discussing the concept of “the one that got away.” We’ve all had that prospective soul mate with whom, due to mitigating circumstances, a relationship was impossible. Mine was a guy named Jeff with I worked with at Cumberland Farms in college. He was an earnest Western MA local who lived in a large party house with seven other men, and liked drinking beers and listening to classic rock. We had nothing in common except a rather misanthropic and sarcastic view of life, yet fondness ensued over many nights clerking the busy convenience store and the few times we went out to a bar afterwards. Despite moments of tension in his car when he’d drop me off after a going out, it never happened. I started dating a guy who shared my love for old school punk music. Jeff dropped off my radar when he quit Cumbys sometime thereafter, but I sometimes wonder… what might have been.

So we all have people like that, even Mariah Carey, who regrets not hooking up with Tupac Shakur: “[Mariah] still thinks he could have been the love of her life if she’d only acted on instinct and dumped her husband Tommy Mottola to be with the late rap icon (here)”. Mariah and Tupac. Yeah, that fits.

Posted in Nostalgia.

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Super Bowl XXXIX, 2005

It’s all about the Kids

We opened with a treacly, over-orchestrated rendition of “America the Beautiful,” complete with a children’s choir—because nothing says gridiron rage like a bunch of sweet kids with Down Syndrome stumbling through choreography while I’m cracking a beer and summoning my inner football beast.

Was it well-meaning? Sure. Was it weaponized sentimentality designed to sanitize last year’s Halftime Peepshow? Absolutely. Using disabled kids to launder the NFL’s public image is not the feel-good kickoff I needed.


Non Sequitors & Statesmen

Next came the World War II tribute. Great, but no one explained why. We’re at war now. Troops are dying in Iraq. But let’s honor WWII? Michael Douglas narrated the whole thing, which felt weird since his filmography mostly involves cheating on women in upscale real estate. Couldn’t get Tom Hanks?

And then, there they were: Clinton and George Bush Sr., shuffling around the stadium in matching blazers and fundraising for tsunami relief like a retired boy band. Yes, it was a show of bipartisan goodwill. Yes, it still pissed me off.


Buy This, Because You’re Dumb

The Pre-Game was a full-blown corporate kamikaze. FOX tried to embed its marketing so deep in my neural cortex I’d wake up screaming “Ameriquest Mortgage” in my sleep. Commercials were either overwrought mini-movies or shots of sugared-out morons howling over Diet Pepsi and Mocha Raspberry Lattes.

Most unforgettable: a Tabasco ad that sold hot sauce by literally comparing a bikini-clad woman to a slab of meat. The female body as marinade—delicious.


Halftime, Sanitized for Your Protection

Out came Sir Paul McCartney, warbling “Baby, you can drive my car, beep-beep, yeah!” while a bunch of teenagers circled the stage with the expression of people who’ve just been told they’re about to meet Blink-182 and instead got the guy who wrote “Blackbird.”

I mean, Paul’s fine. But if we’re going to pander to morality watchdogs, let’s go all in and give America what it really wants: Paul McCartney with a wardrobe malfunction. If he’d whipped out a wrinkled Beatle, I bet even Lennon would’ve cheered from beyond.


Oh Right, They Played Football

Shockingly, the actual game ruled. Most Super Bowls are polite chess matches with quarterbacks afraid of messing up their chance to hawk trucks and sectional sofas. But this one? Total nail-biter.

McNabb slinging lasers to Pinkston. Brady breaking out of his trance. First quarter turnovers that felt operatic. By halftime, I was sweating into my Sam Adams.

When the Patriots pulled ahead 24–14 in the fourth, I thought it was over. But Philly came clawing back. I ached for Eagles fans—those wonderfully mouthy dreamers in facepaint and fury—because they wanted it. They believed.

But the Patriots were just better. If grit and underdog spirit could win football games, Hollywood style, the Eagles would’ve taken it 77–0. But this is New England. We came to win. And then to go eat clam chowder and brag about it forever.

Posted in Americana, In the News.

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Tales from the T: Initimacy Edition

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.

Posted in Massachusetts.

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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.

Posted in In the News.

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But I’m Wild at Heart!

Yesterday at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square, I saw my second favorite movie : David Lynch’s 1990 masterpiece Wild at Heart, starring Nicolas Cage at his pinnacle of integrity, Laura Dern at her pinnacle of cuteness, Crispin Glover at his pinnacle of kookiness, and Willem Dafoe at his pinnacle of coolness. It also sums up Lynch’s entire body of work in one line of dialogue: This whole world’s wild at heart and weird on top. 

Rift with violence, complexity, dark humor, sex and heavy metal, this is the ultimate Love Story for people who always hate Love Stories, but always want to like them.

This movie always stuns me. Beyond the quirky Lynch characters and captivating imagery, there is a story laced with epic themes: Love, Devotion, Deceit, Murder, Crime, Elvis Presley, and Buffalo Hunting.

Lynch made this film immediately after the untimely demise of Lynch’s Twin Peaks TV series. I always got the feeling that this movie was Lynch’s way of getting Twin Peaks out of his system, as Lynch uses many of the same visual themes (fire, cigarettes, domestic turbulence), and even some of the same actors (Sherilyn Fenn, Sheryl Lee and Jack Nance). 

Wild at Heart is also a violent, raunchy modern-day take on the Wizard of Oz (which is my first favorite movie ever). Both are “road” movies in which the characters are taking a journey in search of themselves and a pot of gold while pursued by a crazy witch and her henchmen. Lynch’s wicked witch (below) has a red face covered with lipstick, instead of green. 

Instead of Munchkins and a Scarecrow, we get gang of fetish executioners and Crispin Glover at hunched over a kitchen counter table teeming with lacerated bread screaming “I’m making my lunch!” 

 

Diane Ladd's Marietta Fortune: The Wicked Witch of the South

Diane Ladd's Marietta Fortune: The Wicked Witch of the South

Posted in Culture.

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In Which the Digital Camera Leaves the House

A few day ago, I noted my reluctance to take my brand new, multi-hundred dollar digital camera outside. Yesterday, it pleaded with me, “Please, please let me go outside! I am meant to see the world and digitally render it for posterity!” Since I always follow the advice of inanimate objects (lest they become vengeful), my camera accompanied me on not one but two outings.

In the morning, I soaked up some winter sun along the frozen Charles River. The ice looked sturdy enough to cross the river on foot rather than the Longfellow bridge, but I did not want to risk plunging through the ice into the Charles, because then the camera would have gotten wet.

If one morning I walked on top of the water across the Potomac River, the headline that afternoon would read: “President Can’t Swim.” –Lyndon Johnson

Boston from Longfellow Bridge

Boston from Longfellow Bridge

Then yesterday evening, I took my camera to see the Boston Symphony Orchestra and discreetly snap a few poor-quality pics before the performance.

Boston’s Symphony Hall is not the most impressive venue, but there is a charm to its faux pomp and formless chairs. As for the acoustics..

Everywhere in the world, music enhances a hall, with one exception: Carnegie Hall enhances the music. –Isaac Stern

BSO, Boston Symphony Hall

BSO, Boston Symphony Hall

Posted in Massachusetts.

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Hey Mr. Ancient Hippie Man, Play a Song for Me

 

Practically all my life, I’ve had to justify my love for Bob Dylan to many people. I’ve defended his nozzle voice, his folksy rhythms, and his cheesy old-hippie persona time and time again, trying to explain… it’s all about the lyrics, people. Bob Dylan is our greatest modern day minstrel, and his erring command over lyrical song-writing allows me to overlook the acoustical guitars and a gratuitous use of an organ.

I have listened to Bob Dylan since I was 13; I randomly got a cassette tape of his Greatest Hits after joining Columbia House Music Club under several names to repeatedly “Get 12 for the Price of One” (which you can do online now! here). The juxtaposition of “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” followed by “Blowing in the Wind” blew my immature mind; who the eff was this guy?

Soon, I got book of his lyrics at the local library. It was the most subversive book I ever checked out from the Audubon library, except for maybe the Freudian Interpretation of Dreams. The stark beauty of the written word helped me overcome his dated musical styling. This guy was hip.

As I evolved from classic rock aficionado into teenaged punk, when I dared mention Bob Dylan to a friend, they would stare at me as if my green hair had suddenly turned brown and sneer “Hippie.” 

 

The only close friend whose shared my love for Bob Dylan was AB, a tiny half-Iranian hippie girl from New Jersey who was my constant companion for two years in college. The first night we hung out, the details of which are too sketchy, she got all emotional at five in the morning and blasted “Hurricane” as she did this strange hippie dance in her tiny dorm room. Yet despite her erratic behavior, AB and I clicked. 

Since I much preferred Bob Dylan over her other great musical love (the Grateful effing Dead), we listened to a lot of Dylan. We listened to “Mama You’ve Been on my Mind” so often that I almost picked up on her habit of calling every female “mama.” One night we almost started sobbing over “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” As the maudlin voices chanted about death and and Dylan crooned about his decommissioned boots and pistols, AB looked at me, tears welling. “Mama, I’m bummed,” she said.

bob

Our circle of friend expanded to include two rabid Dylan fans, Josh and Adam. Both would stay up all hours of the night, drinking Boone’s, smoking Marlboros and absorbing Bob Dylan. They unofficially majored in Bob Dylan. Both eventually failed out of school with GPAs below 1.0. But before they both left, I developed a deeper appreciation for Bob Dylan than I care to admit.

I’m writing about Bob Dylan because this morning I spent a good hour reading his song lyrics at BobDylan.com. For every folk-shit stinker like “Now There’s a man you’ll hear about/ Most anywhere you go,/ And his holdings are in Texas/ And his name is Diamond Joe” there’s gems like: “The geometry of innocent flesh on the bone/ Causes Galileo’s math book to get thrown/ At Delilah who sits worthlessly alone /But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter” and”The ghost of ‘lectricity howls in the bones of her face/ Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place” and”The vagabond who’s rapping at your door / Is standing in the clothes that you once wore./ Strike another match, go start anew/ And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.”

Thanks for indulging this lil’ bit of Bob love. I know the previous paragraph was painful.

Posted in Culture, Nostalgia.

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