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A Knock on the Door

“Hi, I’m from the apartment directly above you. And we have a band. And we were wondering if it was cool if we practiced two or three nights a week in our apartment, with a microphoned vocalist and amplified guitars and a full drum set. Don’t worry, we don’t have a cow bell! We wouldn’t ever play past midnight. So is that cool?”

I’ve suspected for awhile that people these days have a lot of gall. Whether it’s by littering two feet away from a trash can, or by emitting 120 decibel laughter on the 7:30am train, or by being generally oblivious to the hardships that their community faces, or by asking their neighbors if they don’t mind an active drum set above their heads three nights a week until midnight… yep, people have a lot of gall.

Where does this gall come from? Assuming most people innately possess a smidgen of empathy, I blame: Overindulgent parents, reality television that places a premium on the insipid thoughts and peeves of the individual, and the need to shelter one’s self from the harsh reality that life is a bitch, and while it would be hunky-dory for you if you could practice with your band in your apartment building, the cold hard truth is that you will have to shell out $150/month for a practice space for your band, you ballsy hip college boy you.

Posted in Existence.

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Rave: Snowy Football Games

Allow me to once again enthuse about the beauty of football games played in the snow. Unfortunately, for much of yesterday’s Patriots/Colts game (which the Pats won, like I never doubted they would, 20-3) the snow made the television screen look warped.

Earlier, I watched the Eagles soundly thwack the Vikings while I walked on a treadmill. I seriously craved a walk on the Charles, but the prospect of multi-tasking with brisk walking and leisurely football watching won out over venturing out in the frigid cold. 

I used to only watch Patriots games. But I’m finding that watching other teams play only increases my appreciation of how totally God-like Tom Brady and the Patriots are. 

I’m envisioning a Patriots vs. Eagles Super Bowl. My allegiance would be torn! If any city deserves a Super Bowl win, it’s the citizens of Philadelphia. But a Patriots win would make me just as happy.

Posted in In the News.

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La Mala Educación

I took Spanish in middle school because everyone said it was the easiest language to learn. After three years of totally hating it, I switched to Latin, which was absurd. So I took a single year of French. My lack of consistency in a single language required me to take four semesters of a language in college, so I returned Spanish because I reasoned it would be the most useful.

Of course foreign language classes as they are taught in America are a waste of time. A language cannot be learned through vocabulary drills and light memorization; it requires sink-or-swim immersion and a serious commitment to go beyond assigned class material. But all my teachers dutifully went through the motions with full knowledge of the slim chance that any one pupil would retain more than a few random words.

Indeed, the only thing I clearly remember from one semester of Spanish was watching Women on a Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Subtle hints of a deeply conflicted and diseased mind pinned together the dark screwball comedy kindled a deep interest in the films of Pedro Almodóvar.

I suppose the movie was shown to our Spanish class to inspire love for the Spanish language as it is spoken by the always-enthralling characters of an Almodóvar film, but who needs to learn the language when you’ve got subtitles?

La Mala Educación’s rave reviews had me dying to see the film, as did memories of my own bad education in español. The premise: A priest at a religious school in Spain molests his star singing and writing pupil, an act that inevitably leaves scars and leads to all of the events in this movie: Blackmail, drug abuse, tons of gay sex, and literary inspiration made into cinema. Pedro Almodóvar’s movies always delve into gender psychology, but he truly outdoes himself with this one. 

This movie is gorgeously filmed. Almodóvar dwells on the details worth taking in and rewards our attention by slipping reference to them later. For many, this NC-17 movie’s most memorable feature is the gay sex, and while it is occasionally graphic, I never got the sense that it was gratuitous. Indeed, if there’s any movie that gay sex belongs in, it’s the one about pedophilia and drag queens.

It was a well told story. Almodóvar movies feel like novel adaptations; the story lines are heavy with detail, and the dialogue is always carefully perfected. He never shies away from blatant visual metaphors and symbolism. The thing was, the story failed to fully capture my interest. The characters were engaging but kinda jerky, and I never found the subject of pedophilia to make for an enjoyable cinematic experience.

Still, I won’t forget this film anytime soon: Memorable, sexy, Almodóvar.

Posted in Review.

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Vera Drake

On the same day that I saw Mike Leigh’s Vera Drake, in which the title character is an illegal abortionist in mid-20th century London, I happened to read an article in this month’s Atlantic Monthly called Letting Go of Roe, in which the pro-choice author Benjamin Wittes argues that it is time for the Democratic party to stop crusading for the federal protection of Roe Vs. Wade.

I agree with some of what Wittes puts forth, namely that allowing abortion to become the main issue on which Supreme Court justices are appointed is deeply unhealthy for this country. I have always been staunchly pro-choice, but I detest the mindset that many voters have about pro-choice candidates: As long as he or she is pro-choice, that’s good enough for me!

But then I saw Vera Drake, a chilling and powerful reminder of what might happen if the right to abortion is not protected. And while I still don’t agree with one-issue voting, you can bet that I’ll slip a little something extra to NOW in my annual donation.

Vera Drake is a saint. Living in war-ravaged London in 1950, Vera cheerfully tends to infirm neighbors and relatives, dutifully cleans houses for rich folk, and lovingly dotes on her close-knit family in their tiny flat. What her family doesn’t know is that, for many years, Vera has been administering saline abortions to women who find themselves in trouble. Free of charge (or so she thinks). Vera’s secret inevitably comes to light in a way that devastates her and her family.

The movie is a powerful pro-choice statement. Along with presenting Vera’s side of things, that these young women are in trouble and need her help, a sub-plot involving the daughter of one of her rich employers shows us how better-off women terminated a pregnancy: By subjecting themselves to prying male doctors and paying a heck of a lot of money.

Compare this to Vera’s quick efficiency and womanly reassurance. In framing the abortion debate in a different time and place, Leigh masterfully shows how we cannot afford a return to back-alley abortions all while showing how back-alley abortions are not nearly as grotesque as we imagined. Now we have clinics and procedures, but women have been doing this for each other for centuries.

But to call Vera Drake a movie about abortion would be missing the point. This is a movie about Vera Drake, a woman who is just as cheerful when she puts on a kettle for tea as when she puts on the kettle for her abortion solution. Imelda Staunton give a deservedly lauded performance, and Mike Leigh’s script and direction is deliberate and provoking.

This movie is the closest thing to a masterpiece that I’ve seen in a while. Try as I may and I always do, I cannot think of one fault or excess. I can only think of a well-written perfectly-paced script, an excellent cast, and a powerful message (that I happened to agree with) presented with only a touch of heavy-handedness.

Posted in Review.

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How I Know the New Singer of the Dead Kennedys

In the summer of 1999, I attended an orientation session for incoming Freshman at my chosen college, UMass Amherst. Unlike the majority of matriculates who came from Massachusetts high schools, I did not know a soul. But within about an hour, I befriended a couple who also hailed from the Philadelphia area: A cool, friendly girl named Deena and her boyfriend Jeff. 

We soon discovered that Jeff and I were both in a program that grouped higher-achieving pre-English majors on the same residential floor and made us take some English classes together. Through this program, I eventually made many of my closest college friends, but Jeff was not to be one of them.

I made plans with Deena and Jeff to hang out in Philly before the semester started. I liked Jeff; we shared an interest in punk music, and he was an intelligent guy. The first night we hung out, they met me at the King of Prussia mall as my shift at the Coffee Beanery ended, and I convinced them to follow me in Jeff’s parent-purchased Jeep-like car to my friend’s house. When we got there about 20 minutes later, Jeff was simply livid. He accused me of taking them to the middle of nowhere without warning, and complained that he wouldn’t have enough gas money to get home. When we left my friend’s house, I followed him to a gas station and paid for his gas. Then, about a week later, I went to his grandiose house in the swanky Main Line suburbs, where it was obvious his every whim was catered to. And I paid his gas money? 

When school started, we hung out together pretty frequently, but soon an unflattering impression formed, that off a pompous rich kid who got off on baseless, dogmatic arguments that were enraging to participate in. Jeff was fiercely Straight Edge and derided those who weren’t. My cigarette smoking was a constant issue for him. Personally, I thought this was hypocritical because he had a girlfriend who (I assume) he engaged in sexual relations with, consumed animal flesh with delight, and chugged numerous cans of Pepsi. 

But that was besides the point. Jeff was incapable of admitting fault and spewed his views on everything with a closed mind. Gradually, I grew apart from Jeff. The exact details are hazy. By Senior year, we were on polite speaking terms if we should run into each other, but there was always sort of an undercurrent of mutual hatred. Jeff went onto Grad school in California and we never spoke again. 

Then, a couple of weeks ago, through a college friend I come to learn that Jeff is the new lead singer of one of the greatest punk bands ever: The Dead Kennedys.

And the screaming in my ears has not stopped since.

Posted in Existence, Nostalgia.

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In the News – Jan 2005

Bowwow Bestiality
A man in New Jersey has been charged with repeatedly sodomizing his neighbor’s dog—a female Rottweiler named Precious.

I know. Horrifying. But also—come on. All I could picture was Gollum mid-thrust, whispering “My Preciousss… we wants it, we needs it… must have the Precious.” Then I died, went straight to hell, and this headline was the welcome mat.

Dave Barry Puts Down the Joke Stick
Dave Barry is retiring his humor column. Possibly forever. Possibly not. The man is a master of vague exits.

I, for one, will deeply miss skipping over his column in the Boston Globe Magazine.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Horsepower
A church in Florida is giving away a 2003 H2 Hummer as a door prize during their upcoming week-long revival.

Apparently, the Holy Spirit moves in mysterious ways—and occasionally needs 10 mpg to do it. While some are clutching their WWJD bracelets and asking, “Would Jesus roll coal?” the rest of us are just here for the altar call raffle.

Posted in In the News.

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Irony in the Laundromat

The man who works the counter at the laundromat/dry cleaners has the worst BO ever. It’s of the revolting kind that I always suspect will stick to me. Oh, he is very nice, always smiling and making non-intrusive small talk to me when I come in, but he smells as if his clothes have never been washed… despite being an employee and possibly part owner of a laundromat.

Though I fear for the purity of my just-laundered clothes, I really do appreciate the irony.

Posted in Existence.

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History of Beer

Beer. Reportedly the first alcoholic beverage known to Mankind, beer was first brewed from fermented bread by the Sumerians as early as 10,000 B.C.. Getting sloshed on beer is condoned by a whore in the Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest written story on Earth. Beer brewing was soon practiced in every corner of the world, from the ancient Egypt and Chinese to the native inhabitants of North America and the monks in Europe. There’s just something about beer that people seem… well, almost genetically-inclined to enjoy.

As modern civilization developed, the customs surrounding the imbibing of beer became as important as the drink itself. Individuals could survive without round-the-clock tribe interaction, so what better way to be sociable than to gather in a tavern and ingest a drink that compels one to be social? Flagrantly, habitually, sometimes embarrassingly social.

American beer has a long history. The Colonies were choke full of breweries from the start. The hard-drinking Pilgrims had a two-quart daily ration of mead… for breakfast alone. In the mid-1800s, the number of breweries in the US peaked at around 4500, but the numbers sharply declined when Prohibition became perhaps the stupidest Constitution amendment ever (or should I say “to date”?)

In the second half of the 20th century, beer production became industrialized, leading to the soda-like filth that ravages the stomachs, livers, physiques and family lives of millions of Americans. Beer drinking is chiefly associated with sport spectators, construction workers, and college kids.

To non-binging or non-indulging Americans, dedicated beer drinking is an at-best silly and at-worst deadly pastime that detracts from the finer things in life. Like wine drinking. And coffee drinking. And Blood of Christ drinking.

But nothing can stop the billion-dollar shareholder-driven companies from peddling their watery ales to the masses of America via big-budget ads with sexy and loose singles shaking their impossibly nubile bodies to inane jingles.

(Ever notice how mass-marketed trends feed off each other? Concurrent with the notion that one is physically incapable of having a good time unless one purchases and ingests copious amounts of beer, other media messages bombard us about the importance of purchasing and ingesting health foods, and the wonders that caffeine can do for a weary fatigued soul. Hence:)

Beer has evolved to B*e, with the “E” denoting something “extra” (the E being an exponent, which I don’t know how to insert in HTML). Pronounced B-to-the-E, this fruity new flavor of Budweiser, spiked with caffeine, guarana and ginseng, is the latest in “a long line of innovative beers by Anheuser-Busch… a distinctive new product for contemporary adults who are looking for the latest beverage to keep up with their highly social and fast-paced lifestyles”.

“Hey man, I don’t need your Miller beer dragging me down! I want a beer that can keep up with me!”

be

The promising rise of the micro-brewery and the increase in home-brewing enthusiasts has not quelled the popularity of shitty corporate beer. With the spawn of B-to-the-E, it is obvious that the once-proud American beer culture will no longer slowly evolve over decades. Beer will be violently and disgustingly innovated by the sick minds in Marketing.

In conclusion, Beer has evolved from the Sumerians to a product that is decidedly “outside the boundaries of the taste adults would expect from a traditional beer,” just like the press release says.

So, what’s next for Beer? As is the nature of American innovation, the possibilities are only limited by the imagination of a money-hungry capitalist, the enthusiasm of a focus group, and the standards of the FDA. I’m seeing Viagra Beer, Nicotine Beer, Antioxidant Beer, Zoloft Beer, Birth Control Beer, The Morning After Beer, Anti-Bacterial Beer…

Posted in Americana.

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so much depends upon a pair of boots glazed with rain water beside the white chickens

Ah, the weather. So tedious to discuss, yet so integral to our lives. It affects our moods, activities, domiciles, food supply, transportation, and, perhaps utmost, our shoes. 

 

My poor all-weather boots, purchases five years ago at Sears, are doomed. Last winter, they slipped subtle hints of their fatigue by leaking trace amounts of water. Yesterday, with about three inches of snow followed by several hours of famed New England “wintry mix,” several pints of Boston slush found its cold wet way through the cracks in the exterior. 

 

Every curb in the city has a moat of dirty water in front of it; the more industrious pedestrian will diligently circumnavigate around the water, but after I stepped in one camouflaged as concrete and soaked my feet and socks, I threw caution to the wind and simply plowed through every four-inch puddle in my path like a madwoman.

 

Speaking of annoying winter moments, yesterday morning, luxuriating on a treadmill with my own *personal television monitor*, I flipped through all of the local news stations. All of them devote about half of their coverage to the weather whenever the slightest flake is forecasted. We get gutsy on-location reporters who are actually outside. In the snow. Pointing at cars and plow trucks and just generally looking uncomfortable, like “Hey, what am I supposed to say? It’s just snowing.” 

 

When they toss it back to the anchors in their nice warm studio, those air heads bleat inanities like “You’ll definitely need to scrap your car this morning” and “Give yourself a few extra minutes on the roadways” and “Grab a blanket to stash in your car in case something tragic happens.” Now that I don’t live with my parents, I don’t know what I’d do without my local news anchors to advise me in these hard, hard times of snow.

Posted in Existence.

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Zen thought of the Day

Actor Richard Gere is working with a pro-peace group to urge Palestinians to vote in the upcoming presidential elections. He has recorded a radio message that starts off:

 

“Hi, I’m Richard Gere and I’m speaking for the entire world”.

Chilling.

Yes, the Middle East peace process will surely thrive with more Hollywood celebrity involvement, especially from a Hollywood Buddhist best known for his pro-prostitution films Pretty Woman and American Gigolo.

Posted in In the News.

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