I must be getting old.
In fact, I know I’m getting old.
We’re all getting old – or at least older, and there’s nothing we can do about it – except give in.
I’m giving in, and the evidence of that is in the stuff I am willing to give out – or give away.
I’m letting the stuff go.
A sure sign of advanced years, I think, is the ability to let go of stuff – all kinds of stuff.
When you’re young, you like stuff, but you’re too busy testing out your own stuff (strutting your stuff) to worry about acquiring other stuff. Consequently, though you’re pretty fussy about the stuff you have – or want, relatively speaking you don’t have much stuff at all.
I used to drag around a trunk full of LPs (large pizza-size black platters on which music had been recorded – for those of you under 40), along with a suitcase with two pairs of jeans and 40 tee shirts, and I thought I was weighed down by my possessions. I had no clue how much stuff I would eventually be able to carry around on my back - like the giant tortoise primitive people believed carried the world on its shell.
The truth is, or was – that, 30 years ago I hardly had any stuff at all.
So where did it all come from?
When you reach a certain age, you don’t suddenly have a lot of stuff: stuff doesn’t start erupting from the floor like zits on your forehead.
It’s not that you have more zits as you get older, it’s that you have more forehead: more space for the stuff.
You get your first car and, you soon discover, a car is just space to put stuff.
You get your first apartment and – though you were hoping it would prove a ‘babe’ magnet, it turns out that it’s a stuff magnet.
Your first house? Oh my gosh, a house is like some Criss Angel ‘Mind-Freak’ magic trick in which – one moment you have all these empty rooms, shiny wooden floors, clean carpets and unblemished walls, and then Criss throws a blanket over it – tosses his carefully jelled unkempt hair back and – voila, the place is full of stuff: crammed with stuff; stuffed with stuff; choking on stuff.
Of course you could just get rid of the stuff, couldn’t you?
Hah, that’s a laugh. I still have that trunk full of LPs.
Have you ever seen Criss Angel’s basement? It’s crammed with old guillotines, elephants he teleported, lots and lots of mirrors, and case after case of hair gel.
Scientists will tell you that human beings are genetically linked to squirrels: no matter how many nuts we have, we’re going to keep cramming them down the trunk of our tree until it splits in half. Heck, I carry around a year’s worth of acorns in my mouth.
So what do you do?
Well, when you’re young, you think it’s simple: just get more space, for the stuff.
Maybe you start off storing stuff in the basement. Then you buy some of those closet organizers. Closet organizers are like accountants on a battlefield: useless, except to keep count of the carnage.
Did you ever go to a house and – seeing how neat and uncluttered it was, wonder where they were hiding all their stuff?
My friend Dan super-glued some of his stuff to the ceiling.
I have another friend who put those torpedo-shaped containers that you usually see on the roofs of SUVs – on the roof of his house: he keeps his LPs in them.
I myself have 3 ½ tool sheds, spread about the back yard – and my tools are still somewhere in the basement.
So I was somewhat taken aback, when my wife announced last week that there was going to be a new addition to our family. She wasn’t pregnant – she was just trying to tell me in the nicest way possible that she had agreed to take a few pieces of furniture from her father’s old apartment. It was her way of saying, you can either help me move his stuff in, or you can move yourself out.
I took it surprisingly well, I think. I do take up a lot of space that could otherwise be taken up by three boxes of old photographs, or an old KayPro computer, or one of those budget size 48-roll bundles of paper towels that you can get at Sam’s Club.
That’s another thing about all this stuff: we have so much of it that we spend half our lives moving it from one room to another, one house to another. Forget weddings and funerals: the only time the family ever gets together is when somebody is moving in or moving out. I found out my son had become a Zoroastrian during a conversation we had from opposite ends of a couch we were carrying up two flights of stairs to his new apartment…
So, anyway, I gave in, and paid a visit to Uncle Bob.
Did I tell you about Uncle Bob? He’s not really my Uncle, but I was attracted to the name, and there was a local franchise right down the street from our stuff, I mean, from our house.
Uncle Bob’s is what they call, a self-storage center.
Uncle Bob’s was a revelation, to me at least.
I’ve heard of doggie heaven, and cat heaven, and the like – the places that our pets go after they die. But I never knew there was a stuff heaven. That’s what Uncle Bob’s is: acres and acres of cute little metal houses where the stuff you never thought you could live without, spends its golden years.
Oh, so you’re not impressed. That’s because you’re still young. You still think that there will always be space for your stuff, right at home. You swear you will never give your stuff away or – heaven forbid, store it someplace.
Maybe you’re right. Or maybe you’re just young.
As you get older you don’t love your stuff any less, you just start to realize that not too far down the road, somebody’s going to have to figure out what to do with your stuff.
I’m not waiting. I’m taking a sofa bed and my old trunk of LPs, and moving into a 5x10 at Uncle Bob’s.
Forget the stuff. I need a place of my own.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Time Travel, Rotaries, Convenience Stores..
The trouble with time travel – I have always argued, is that if we could actually travel through time, time wouldn’t be time, anymore.
I mean, time is predictable, inexorable (look it up), unyielding, and monotonous (not to mention, redundant): if it were not all those things, it would not be time.
Understand?
The same might be said for traffic (in fact, I just said it) – and historically, efforts to manage traffic have been as pathetic as the efforts to manage time. That is to say, the idea that we can manage traffic is, largely, science fiction – that is, except for the exploits our own Billington Brothers.
The Billington Brothers, in case you’re new to town – were Plymouth’s own time travelers. No, I’m sorry – I meant to say, Plymouth’s own traffic engineers. In fact, you might say that the Billington Brothers were America’s first traffic engineers.
Way back before there was traffic in America (a long, long time ago), the Billington Brothers were managing it.
Before there was a need to find a quick way to Middleboro – before Old 44 and way before the New 44, and actually before Middleboro itself, Francis Billington went looking for a short cut.
He actually found it – the short cut that is, but as there was no where to cut shortly to – save for the 3000 or so miles between here and the Pacific Ocean, Francis might still be headed west if he did not run smack dab into a Native American all-natural rotary. Some historians have cynically concluded that Francis was actually lost, but I think we have all seen our share of out-of-state drivers who knew right where they were, but could not extricate themselves from a rotary.
I could go on – making a kind of literary rotary out of this, but unlike those aforementioned drivers, I know that to get out of this. I simply need to use, what my first English teacher told me, was a transitional device.
300 years after Francis Billington got caught in that magic circle of bent birch trees, his descendant, Tiki Manoogian, is one of the regulars at the very popular collection of shops and automobile service operations on South Street, known as the Mayflower Convenience Store.
Actually, until I told him, Tiki didn’t even realize that his favorite store sits on the site of that prehistoric rotary.
Until I convinced him, Tiki didn’t even know that he was a descendant of Francis Billington.
But after experiencing the mystery and magic of the maze of roads and parking spaces that have been woven from the 100 square miles of pungent tar that encircles the Mayflower complex, Tiki was ready to let me put words in his mouth.
“I used to believe that there was no more confounding web of roadway in the world than the paths that bind the acres of our own Myles Standish State Forest together,” Tiki repeated for me, adding “To enter the Myles Standish without an experienced guide or a detailed map is to experience a true Hansel & Gretel moment.”
But the mystical power of the Mayflower Convenience stores much smaller footprint, may be derived from its very compactness. And it is far more frightening to become lost in the Mayflower’s parking lots, than it is to be lost in Myles Standish – because it just does not seem possible. One moment you are at the self-service gas pump, watching and waving to friends driving by, and the next you are banging on the window of their own Dunkin Donut franchise – desperately asking for directions.
Tiki swears he’s not benefiting from the confusion – though he understands the financial rewards of stranding motorists at that location. All credit Tiki says, is owed the Planning Board – which designed the traffic flow. And judging from some of their other work around town – the Planning Board’s involvement does seem likely.
No matter who gets credit, the Mayflower Convenience Store parking lot is a marvel of traffic flow dis-engineering.
When you leave the pumps, you can’t go left – though South Street is just a few feet away. The arrows – like bread crumbs left by a lost child, turn you to the right. If you thought then, to pick up a cruller and regular Joe to go, again you can’t go left and park in the spaces in front of DoubleD, but instead you’re directed right - along the front of the store.
Careful, the old dead-end that led to the cute little gingerbread ATM is still there, but different. The road now passes the ATM, and descends down a floodlit hill that you never knew existed, complete with speed bumps, traffic lights, past a grove of ancient, gnarled birch trees (the original Billington Rotary I’m told by local psychic historian Dee Jonson) before circling around the back of the compound.
By that point though, panic has set in, and you just want out. Brilliantly, you can’t ask directions at the take-out window of the Dunkin Donuts, unless you have previously ordered at the remote ordering pylon, which you have probably already passed. If you really want a donut, you’re going to have to go around again, and if you just want to get directions, you’re going to have to order first, after you go around again. If you give up, and want to go downtown - toward the waterfront, you are in luck – because you are now in line for a right turn only ramp. But if you give up and want to go west – toward Home Depot, you can’t take the obvious route to South Street - because that’s a right turn only. Instead, again, you’ll have to pass by the front of the convenience/deli/liquor store.
After doing this a few times, the subliminal low-frequency radio broadcasts emanating from the store take effect, and before you leave you will have purchased – at the very least, a lottery ticket, two donuts, coffee, a new oil filter, and a GPS unit. Or, you may become like Tiki, a permanent resident.
Yes, there are many other magical traffic experiences in Plymouth: the blind intersection of Long Pond and Ship Pond Roads; the mayhem that will ensue when the drive thru at the new Mary Lou's backs up onto Hedges Pond Road; the late afternoon sun that blinds you on Route 80; and the dead-ends, bridge-outs, frost-heaves and nameless ponds of Myles Standish, to name just a few. But I feel safe in predicting that – a thousand years from now, visitors from outer space will be bending time in order to experience the mind-altering, suspension-twisting, one-way, no way, wrong way weirdness of the Billington’s own Mayflower Convenience Store.
Ballast
Ode to a cheese curl.
Oh lovely, crunchy, neon orange waste of a dozen calories. When the day is done you are the only thing that remains with me: glowing from the tips of each finger like radioactive waste; gummed up along the crevices of my molars; stuck to my shirt like late spring snowflakes.
Whenever I become excessively pompous, whenever I go on too long about the symbolism of the Thunderbird in “Thelma & Louise”, nothing brings me down to earth faster than a handful of your hollow fingers.
Is there anything more normal, more everyday, more matter of fact than your obscenely inflated carbohydrates?
Is there anything more accessible, more available, more capable of inking over the aggravating details of existence, than your sold by volume not by weight insubstantiality?
Yeah, I guess there is.
A good hot dog, for one. The first juicy clamp down on a sugar-fed Double Bubble.
Hell, there are probably a hundred economical antidotes to my middle-age onset addiction to the pompous and/or unnecessarily complex.
Pardon me, but I’ve just come to the realization that along with my Silver Patron Tequila, and the anniversary edition of Mile’s Kind of Blue, the poetry of Russell Hoban, the blogs and the journals and the saxophone and a thousand other subtly intoxicating substances and services that I have become philosophically and/or physically addicted to, that I crave the everyday too: I need the average as well, as much, to be happy.
Those guys in the clown outfits that ride the tall unicycles while playing Yankee Doodle Dandy on the fife in the July 4th Parade – they aren’t still out there, are they?
No, I didn’t think so.
You can only balance on one wheel and play the fife and wear the clown makeup for so long – before you go arse over teakettle. Sooner, not later, you have to put the training wheels back on.
Even blimp pilots go on vacations.
And let me tell you, when a blimp pilot takes her vacation she sticks close to the ground: seventy-two percent of blimp pilots are avid spelunkers (I made that up.)
But seriously, what I am babbling about is balance. Not Yin and Yang – those are two sides of the same coin. No, the kind of balance that a ship needs to keep from floundering at sea – balance from ballast: from forty-thousand pounds of cobblestones in its belly (40,000 pounds of cheese curls would do too).
I remember an afternoon playing so-called touch football with some overgrown, underage hard-asses some twenty years ago, and getting carried away with the contact – with rushing the quarterback, with smacking into the oversized yoot left behind to block for the opposition and, though afterwards I could hardly walk, feeling almost high from the contact, the physicality, the total abandonment of intellect.
(I also remember the sound of my bones collapsing like cheese curls under the existential jaw of age).
Touch football is the cheese curl of athletic endeavors.
I love the relative mindless-ness of hiking in the White Mountains too, where, for most of the time, there are no sights at all to see, just branches to avoid, boulders to scale, slopes to scramble up and where – before you know it, your worries are far behind. I think it must be far more tiring to hike out west, where you are often moving across open glades with too much to see, too much time to think.
But then, of late, I haven’t had the time to hike at all.
This year my hikes have consisted of going from the phone, to the computer, to the phone, to the TV, to bed.
Lately life has been like a ride up old Route 1, from Peabody to Medford, with never a break between one oversized array of blinking lights to the next; no exits except those that just turn you around and send you back down the other side like a gerbil on the wheel.
Simply put, I am in need of simplicity.
I could use a bowl of Gram Tobin’s rice pudding.
I’d like to get my hands around one or two of those grenade-sized Rolling Rocks.
I could use a fast drive through the North Woods, with the windows down and the lights out.
I’m searching the dial for a static-free AM station.
This blimp pilot needs a vacation.
Another bowl of cheese curls, please.
(Photo courtesy of Cinemaben)
A War of Our Own
We deserve it and, finally, we’re going to get it.
In a little more than a year they’re going to start delivering the remains to us.
Credit where credit is due.
We went along with it, when it was first announced.
We re-elected Bush, even after it was clear that he didn’t know what he was doing.
And we’ve done everything we can to ignore what is going on, over there, for almost five years.
So now we can relax and enjoy the fruits of our inaction, while the war drags on and our poor excuse for a President limps into history.
Oh sure, there are those who want to give all the credit to Congress. In the beginning the Republicans gave us a new reason getting into the war every week, proclaimed victory ever few months, and devised a new winning strategy before every election. And when the Democrats took power they showed just as much imagination devising excuses as to why we can’t get out.
But it’s not up to them: never was.
They’re our representatives.
It’s our fault.
It’s amazing what you can accomplish, without trying.
We’re probably going to have a casino in Middleboro before we have all of our soldiers back from Iraq.
Over a billion ribbon decals have been sold.
We’ve probably spent more on cheap American flags than we have donated to the effort to end the war.
We support the troops in every way possible, except of course, by getting them out of harm’s way
What’s Iraq to us? Most of us don’t have anyone close, serving over there. And unless you’re in the National Guard, you don’t have to worry about being ‘called up’.
It’s an easy war to ignore.
Sure, there have been hundreds of thousands of Iraqis killed. So what.
We just don’t care. And we have plenty of company.
I remember the old poster – from the sixties, which was captioned, “What if they gave a war and nobody came?”
Today we could say that about protests.
Most protests today, look like excursions from a senior citizen center. The average age of a war protester is about 60.
And even when there is a well-attended protest – the media doesn’t cover it. Why? Because they know we don’t care. Or rather, they know we’d rather watch celebrity mud wrestling.
They know they can get away with it.
Here’s a poster caption for this generation: “What if they spent a trillion dollars and nobody cared?”
Or, “What if they maimed twenty thousand soldiers and nobody noticed?”
Or, “Are we going to let this President get away with passing on this bloody stupid war to us? Or are we going to hold him accountable, end it now, and as a final act, kick his sorry ass out of Washington D.C.?”
Are we?
No we aren’t!
We’re going to let him take the Marine helicopter from the White House lawn, with what’s left of the NeoCons waiving goodbye.
Did you ever play that game with the toy bomb that you wind up and toss from person to person, to see who is left holding it when it goes off – bang! It’s just a toy, but it makes an aggravatingly loud noise. It’s just a game, but you still don’t want to be the last one holding it when the ticking stops.
Iraq is no toy. But don’t look now, George has that silly grin on his face and he’s about to drop the whole damn war right in our laps.
It’s just what we have been asking for.
It’s just what we deserve.
In a little more than a year they’re going to start delivering the remains to us.
Credit where credit is due.
We went along with it, when it was first announced.
We re-elected Bush, even after it was clear that he didn’t know what he was doing.
And we’ve done everything we can to ignore what is going on, over there, for almost five years.
So now we can relax and enjoy the fruits of our inaction, while the war drags on and our poor excuse for a President limps into history.
Oh sure, there are those who want to give all the credit to Congress. In the beginning the Republicans gave us a new reason getting into the war every week, proclaimed victory ever few months, and devised a new winning strategy before every election. And when the Democrats took power they showed just as much imagination devising excuses as to why we can’t get out.
But it’s not up to them: never was.
They’re our representatives.
It’s our fault.
It’s amazing what you can accomplish, without trying.
We’re probably going to have a casino in Middleboro before we have all of our soldiers back from Iraq.
Over a billion ribbon decals have been sold.
We’ve probably spent more on cheap American flags than we have donated to the effort to end the war.
We support the troops in every way possible, except of course, by getting them out of harm’s way
What’s Iraq to us? Most of us don’t have anyone close, serving over there. And unless you’re in the National Guard, you don’t have to worry about being ‘called up’.
It’s an easy war to ignore.
Sure, there have been hundreds of thousands of Iraqis killed. So what.
We just don’t care. And we have plenty of company.
I remember the old poster – from the sixties, which was captioned, “What if they gave a war and nobody came?”
Today we could say that about protests.
Most protests today, look like excursions from a senior citizen center. The average age of a war protester is about 60.
And even when there is a well-attended protest – the media doesn’t cover it. Why? Because they know we don’t care. Or rather, they know we’d rather watch celebrity mud wrestling.
They know they can get away with it.
Here’s a poster caption for this generation: “What if they spent a trillion dollars and nobody cared?”
Or, “What if they maimed twenty thousand soldiers and nobody noticed?”
Or, “Are we going to let this President get away with passing on this bloody stupid war to us? Or are we going to hold him accountable, end it now, and as a final act, kick his sorry ass out of Washington D.C.?”
Are we?
No we aren’t!
We’re going to let him take the Marine helicopter from the White House lawn, with what’s left of the NeoCons waiving goodbye.
Did you ever play that game with the toy bomb that you wind up and toss from person to person, to see who is left holding it when it goes off – bang! It’s just a toy, but it makes an aggravatingly loud noise. It’s just a game, but you still don’t want to be the last one holding it when the ticking stops.
Iraq is no toy. But don’t look now, George has that silly grin on his face and he’s about to drop the whole damn war right in our laps.
It’s just what we have been asking for.
It’s just what we deserve.
Spider Surge
Like Fifth Columnists, tiny spiders are coming through the living room window, under cover of ladybugs.
There’s an untidy garden of flowers, a pear tree sapling, and a weed pretending to be a bush on the other side of that window, so we are used to seeing small dark, wing-ed specks come through the tattered mesh screen.
The baby spiders are just about the same size as the ladybugs so, in the corner of your eye they don’t arouse suspicion. Until that is, the mother ships arrive.
I’ve heard that this is Spider Season, whatever that means. I suppose that’s at least a hopeful designation, suggesting that most of these spiders are vacationing, or taking short-term leases – and should be headed back ‘home’ once the cooler weather gets a firm hold.
Still, some of these spiders are not as well-mannered as you might expect, of tourists.
There are the 101st Airborne Spiders (my designation for them, not an official scientific term), who drop down in front of the TV while you are watching, unconcerned that they are interrupting your show.
Then there are those Arachis who spin webs, overnight, in public places. On door knobs, or across hallways, or from bedpost to bedpost. Maybe I’m wrong, but I always thought that there were certain, semi-officially designated, acceptable places for house spiders to engineer their webs – and the spicket in the bathroom was never one of them.
It may be me, but I have the sense that spiders – as a species, are becoming more and more aggressive.
Even cockroaches show more sensitivity – coming out only under cover of darkness, and then scurrying for cover if the lights come on unexpectedly.
But the modern day house spider often insolently parades over the living room rug in the middle of the day, in the middle of Oprah for god’s sake – and only scurries for cover when you have a rolled magazine poised above them.
In the past I attributed the fat, swollen, itchy lumps that appeared on my arms and legs, between my toes, on the back of my neck and elsewhere at this time of year, to a wide variety of ointments, water treatments, ants, fleas, tics and such, which have in common a certain occult nature. But today I’m fairly certain that spiders are the cause.
I’ve counted seven varieties on our first floor alone.
Did you ever notice how everyone exaggerates the size of a spider? When you hear a description of a spider it is never less than an inch long, always hairy, and usually said to have strange stripes and spots and, I’ve also heard people say, speech impediments.
I saw one of those the other day – a big, hairy, spotted and striped spider with a pronounced lisp, in the family room, and before I could squash it with my foot, it leaped into the air, yelled out ‘thufferin thuccoatash”, and traveled about a yard before landing – purposefully I believe, smack dab in the middle of an oriental rug. (Did you ever notice how I use the phrase, ‘smack dab’ at least once in every column?)
Once on the Oriental it was effectively camouflaged – so I had to throw the whole rug away.
According to my research, it was actually either a Wolf Spider, or a Traveling Salesman Spider. It all happened very quickly, but I did think I got a glimpse of a small leather valise held by one of its eight hairy legs.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, that’s right: in the last three weeks I’ve recorded definitive sightings of eleven separate species of spider, on our first floor alone.
A Jumping Spider was easily identified, when it jumped into a cup of coffee that I had just put down on the little display table in the middle of the room. Jumping Spiders look like little fuzzy legged spiders carrying school rings but, as I discovered when I poured the coffee out onto a ball of wadded paper towels, that school ring is actually their colorful abdomen.
I also easily identified a Nursery Web Spider – which is also called a Fishing Spider, when I chased it out the house and into the neighbor’s yard where – faced with a choice of either a boot wielding madman or a dip in the neighbors pool, it jumped in and submerged itself.
I’m afraid of pool water, so I thought nothing of it until a week later when my neighbor had a pool party and I suddenly heard the scream of an arachnophobic woman who decided to take a late night dip.
By the way, isn’t the notion of arachnophobia silly? I mean, who isn’t afraid of spiders? Just like you can’t tell me that when you swim in the ocean – somewhere in the back of your mind you aren’t thinking, shark! People with phobias are supposedly mentally unstable, and unreasonably obsessive: but isn’t it stranger not to be afraid of spiders, or sharks, or clowns?
Anyway, after a brief conversation with my neighbor, I realized that I had correctly identified that speedy, three-inch, hairy-legged creature as a Pool Party Spider.
And speaking of clowns, I also identified another spider that had been lurking in the basement – based on the red nose, the large feet, and the tiny little car that it drove around in (and an abdomen shaped like a seltzer bottle), as a Clown Spider.
Anyway, you get my point – I think, that there is something odd going on, in terms of spiders, at least in my house.
I know it’s Spider Season, but I’m kind of worried that Labor Day has come and gone and these guys are still hanging around.
I’m thinking this is a Spider Surge and, if so, I’m going to have to get used to the idea of spiders in the house for years to come.
There’s an untidy garden of flowers, a pear tree sapling, and a weed pretending to be a bush on the other side of that window, so we are used to seeing small dark, wing-ed specks come through the tattered mesh screen.
The baby spiders are just about the same size as the ladybugs so, in the corner of your eye they don’t arouse suspicion. Until that is, the mother ships arrive.
I’ve heard that this is Spider Season, whatever that means. I suppose that’s at least a hopeful designation, suggesting that most of these spiders are vacationing, or taking short-term leases – and should be headed back ‘home’ once the cooler weather gets a firm hold.
Still, some of these spiders are not as well-mannered as you might expect, of tourists.
There are the 101st Airborne Spiders (my designation for them, not an official scientific term), who drop down in front of the TV while you are watching, unconcerned that they are interrupting your show.
Then there are those Arachis who spin webs, overnight, in public places. On door knobs, or across hallways, or from bedpost to bedpost. Maybe I’m wrong, but I always thought that there were certain, semi-officially designated, acceptable places for house spiders to engineer their webs – and the spicket in the bathroom was never one of them.
It may be me, but I have the sense that spiders – as a species, are becoming more and more aggressive.
Even cockroaches show more sensitivity – coming out only under cover of darkness, and then scurrying for cover if the lights come on unexpectedly.
But the modern day house spider often insolently parades over the living room rug in the middle of the day, in the middle of Oprah for god’s sake – and only scurries for cover when you have a rolled magazine poised above them.
In the past I attributed the fat, swollen, itchy lumps that appeared on my arms and legs, between my toes, on the back of my neck and elsewhere at this time of year, to a wide variety of ointments, water treatments, ants, fleas, tics and such, which have in common a certain occult nature. But today I’m fairly certain that spiders are the cause.
I’ve counted seven varieties on our first floor alone.
Did you ever notice how everyone exaggerates the size of a spider? When you hear a description of a spider it is never less than an inch long, always hairy, and usually said to have strange stripes and spots and, I’ve also heard people say, speech impediments.
I saw one of those the other day – a big, hairy, spotted and striped spider with a pronounced lisp, in the family room, and before I could squash it with my foot, it leaped into the air, yelled out ‘thufferin thuccoatash”, and traveled about a yard before landing – purposefully I believe, smack dab in the middle of an oriental rug. (Did you ever notice how I use the phrase, ‘smack dab’ at least once in every column?)
Once on the Oriental it was effectively camouflaged – so I had to throw the whole rug away.
According to my research, it was actually either a Wolf Spider, or a Traveling Salesman Spider. It all happened very quickly, but I did think I got a glimpse of a small leather valise held by one of its eight hairy legs.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, that’s right: in the last three weeks I’ve recorded definitive sightings of eleven separate species of spider, on our first floor alone.
A Jumping Spider was easily identified, when it jumped into a cup of coffee that I had just put down on the little display table in the middle of the room. Jumping Spiders look like little fuzzy legged spiders carrying school rings but, as I discovered when I poured the coffee out onto a ball of wadded paper towels, that school ring is actually their colorful abdomen.
I also easily identified a Nursery Web Spider – which is also called a Fishing Spider, when I chased it out the house and into the neighbor’s yard where – faced with a choice of either a boot wielding madman or a dip in the neighbors pool, it jumped in and submerged itself.
I’m afraid of pool water, so I thought nothing of it until a week later when my neighbor had a pool party and I suddenly heard the scream of an arachnophobic woman who decided to take a late night dip.
By the way, isn’t the notion of arachnophobia silly? I mean, who isn’t afraid of spiders? Just like you can’t tell me that when you swim in the ocean – somewhere in the back of your mind you aren’t thinking, shark! People with phobias are supposedly mentally unstable, and unreasonably obsessive: but isn’t it stranger not to be afraid of spiders, or sharks, or clowns?
Anyway, after a brief conversation with my neighbor, I realized that I had correctly identified that speedy, three-inch, hairy-legged creature as a Pool Party Spider.
And speaking of clowns, I also identified another spider that had been lurking in the basement – based on the red nose, the large feet, and the tiny little car that it drove around in (and an abdomen shaped like a seltzer bottle), as a Clown Spider.
Anyway, you get my point – I think, that there is something odd going on, in terms of spiders, at least in my house.
I know it’s Spider Season, but I’m kind of worried that Labor Day has come and gone and these guys are still hanging around.
I’m thinking this is a Spider Surge and, if so, I’m going to have to get used to the idea of spiders in the house for years to come.
The Wave
I hate The Wave.
Life is short, and tickets are hard to get.
But when you go to the game, instead of focusing on the field, you get caught up in The Wave.
You hardly have a choice. You hear the squeals around you – a sound like seagulls over the dump, and then you see it undulating toward you. You could ignore it – turn your nose up into the air, but you’ll still be drenched by the spray as it passes over you.
I try to be philosophical – or at least, to hide my disdain for those who ‘join in’. I tell myself that it’s hard not to be distracted by the noisemakers – hard to keep from joining in, despite our better judgment, even when something special is going on.
But life is what we miss while we are busy waving our arms and making silly noises.
Our children are growing up. Our friends are getting older. The ground is cracking open, belching smoke. The end of the world is close at hand, but we are too busy to notice, playing in The Wave.
At least, at the ballpark, it’s a clear choice.
At the ballpark, there are those who know what is going on – and those who don’t care. Not that it makes much difference. Even the purists can get caught up in the spray and foam – belatedly discovering that they have missed an ‘at bat’ or two.
Fenway Park - and the fans that you find there, are no different.
The new, improved Fenway, for all of its amenities, has little to do with baseball. The new Fenway openly acknowledges that, even in a bastion of alleged baseball purity, the so-called fans care little for the game itself.
Every minute before the actual game begins, is scheduled – with wave after wave of deliberate distractions: promotional events, special appearances, autograph sessions, oompah band oomphing.
There is a tacit understanding that baseball is boring. But isn’t baseball, as the purists used to proclaim on their tee-shirts, “life”?
Is life boring?
Boredom’s simply a loss of attention: there is always something wonderful going on, right in front of us – but rather than focus in on what is right there, we search the horizon for the obvious.
I am reminded of the opening sequence of David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet”: an ordinary, almost clichéd middle American street – firefighters driving by waving from the truck, children jumping rope, stunningly bright white picket fences, sprinklers hypnotically sprinkling and then, almost unnoticed at first, the camera literally begins to dig into the grass and dive down into the dirt, uncovering an unseemly world teeming with frenetic insects.
When we are young, we seem distracted – but in fact we are focused on the world around us, on the moment. We seem distracted because we are overwhelmed by the splendid, complex, unfathomable creation that we have literally just discovered.
As we get older we become selective – perhaps too selective: many of us simply block the world out and interpret everything through the clouded prism of our petty personal concerns and hungers.
You’d think that, when somehow you manage to score those hard-to-get tickets, you’d actually watch the game.
You’d hope that, when the country goes to war, people would pay attention.
You believe that, as the ice caps melt, we’d stop buying disposable plastic water bottles.
But it doesn’t work that way.
My older son and I happened to be at the no-hitter at Fenway, September 1st.
It was a beautiful day, full of natural and man-made distractions. A cloudless sky. 70 degrees. Oompah bands. Sausage and onions. Yawkey Way.
So of course, The Wave started early.
It didn’t matter that the Hose were on the skids – had lost four in a row.
Our seats were great: reached by a special elevator, at the end of a row, in a section with its own concession stands, looking right down onto the third base line and across toward Back Bay where – at game time, the setting sun had already begun to glaze the glass and burnish the golden rooftops of the city’s historic skyline.
There was, in the air, the expectation of pleasure – a feeling as palpable as the smell of sausages venting over the ballpark’s flat green rooftop.
All that could get in the way of a perfect evening, was baseball.
Though Orioles rookie pitcher – Garrett Olson, had previously lost to the Sox, and had an ERA of over 7, Boston’s lineup was stymied early on. Meanwhile, Boston rookie pitcher Clay Buchholz seemed only marginally better.
By the bottom of the second The Wave was disorganized, but gaining strength.
In the fourth Big Papi stroked a wall-scraping double and the drinking light was lit.
When the Orioles couldn’t muster any offense in the top of the fifth, less committed fans began looking at their watches, pondering an early exit. I was admittedly, thinking of another visit to the concession stand but before I could stir myself out of my seat, I was confronted by a strange look on my son’s face. He was hinting – while trying hard not to risk offending the gremlins of baseball, that there was something else going on. He gestured toward the scoreboard above the bleachers. We were halfway through the game and the Orioles had yet to… I don’t want to say it, even now.
But at that moment I laughed him off. The chances were against it. The likelihood slim. There were still twelve outs to go and, anything could happen.
Just then I heard the squeals and saw, on the other side of the park, the un-mistakable signs of an entire bleacher section’s worth of humans about to breach.
A full scale Wave was just a few batters away.
It was touch and go.
We were either headed toward history, or to another day at the beach.
With every pitch that Buchholz threw a thousand more disinterested fans joined The Wave. But with every inning that the Orioles remained hitless, three thousand joined the game.
From that first full-fledged roar of undulating fans just after the fourth inning ended, each successive attempt to start a Wave grew a little smaller, quieter. By the top of the seventh, the sea of fans was amazingly calm: hardly a ripple on the surface.
It‘s normal to lose a few thousand fans by the seventh – whatever the score, but on this cool evening the crowd stayed in their seats, even seemed to grow larger. In some cases, well-to-do fans that had spent the first few innings dining inside one of the private clubs, were lured back out into the open air.
Instead of the squeal of gulls, a sound not unlike the song of whales was heard – and not just from one section of the park, but emanating from deep within the whole. You could feel the excitement growing. As the last batter took a called strike three, it was the actual game that had our full attention.
When it was over – when that perfect moment had passed, the crowed refused to leave.
36,000 people living entirely in the moment.
And then the squealing started up again.
Life is short, and tickets are hard to get.
But when you go to the game, instead of focusing on the field, you get caught up in The Wave.
You hardly have a choice. You hear the squeals around you – a sound like seagulls over the dump, and then you see it undulating toward you. You could ignore it – turn your nose up into the air, but you’ll still be drenched by the spray as it passes over you.
I try to be philosophical – or at least, to hide my disdain for those who ‘join in’. I tell myself that it’s hard not to be distracted by the noisemakers – hard to keep from joining in, despite our better judgment, even when something special is going on.
But life is what we miss while we are busy waving our arms and making silly noises.
Our children are growing up. Our friends are getting older. The ground is cracking open, belching smoke. The end of the world is close at hand, but we are too busy to notice, playing in The Wave.
At least, at the ballpark, it’s a clear choice.
At the ballpark, there are those who know what is going on – and those who don’t care. Not that it makes much difference. Even the purists can get caught up in the spray and foam – belatedly discovering that they have missed an ‘at bat’ or two.
Fenway Park - and the fans that you find there, are no different.
The new, improved Fenway, for all of its amenities, has little to do with baseball. The new Fenway openly acknowledges that, even in a bastion of alleged baseball purity, the so-called fans care little for the game itself.
Every minute before the actual game begins, is scheduled – with wave after wave of deliberate distractions: promotional events, special appearances, autograph sessions, oompah band oomphing.
There is a tacit understanding that baseball is boring. But isn’t baseball, as the purists used to proclaim on their tee-shirts, “life”?
Is life boring?
Boredom’s simply a loss of attention: there is always something wonderful going on, right in front of us – but rather than focus in on what is right there, we search the horizon for the obvious.
I am reminded of the opening sequence of David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet”: an ordinary, almost clichéd middle American street – firefighters driving by waving from the truck, children jumping rope, stunningly bright white picket fences, sprinklers hypnotically sprinkling and then, almost unnoticed at first, the camera literally begins to dig into the grass and dive down into the dirt, uncovering an unseemly world teeming with frenetic insects.
When we are young, we seem distracted – but in fact we are focused on the world around us, on the moment. We seem distracted because we are overwhelmed by the splendid, complex, unfathomable creation that we have literally just discovered.
As we get older we become selective – perhaps too selective: many of us simply block the world out and interpret everything through the clouded prism of our petty personal concerns and hungers.
You’d think that, when somehow you manage to score those hard-to-get tickets, you’d actually watch the game.
You’d hope that, when the country goes to war, people would pay attention.
You believe that, as the ice caps melt, we’d stop buying disposable plastic water bottles.
But it doesn’t work that way.
My older son and I happened to be at the no-hitter at Fenway, September 1st.
It was a beautiful day, full of natural and man-made distractions. A cloudless sky. 70 degrees. Oompah bands. Sausage and onions. Yawkey Way.
So of course, The Wave started early.
It didn’t matter that the Hose were on the skids – had lost four in a row.
Our seats were great: reached by a special elevator, at the end of a row, in a section with its own concession stands, looking right down onto the third base line and across toward Back Bay where – at game time, the setting sun had already begun to glaze the glass and burnish the golden rooftops of the city’s historic skyline.
There was, in the air, the expectation of pleasure – a feeling as palpable as the smell of sausages venting over the ballpark’s flat green rooftop.
All that could get in the way of a perfect evening, was baseball.
Though Orioles rookie pitcher – Garrett Olson, had previously lost to the Sox, and had an ERA of over 7, Boston’s lineup was stymied early on. Meanwhile, Boston rookie pitcher Clay Buchholz seemed only marginally better.
By the bottom of the second The Wave was disorganized, but gaining strength.
In the fourth Big Papi stroked a wall-scraping double and the drinking light was lit.
When the Orioles couldn’t muster any offense in the top of the fifth, less committed fans began looking at their watches, pondering an early exit. I was admittedly, thinking of another visit to the concession stand but before I could stir myself out of my seat, I was confronted by a strange look on my son’s face. He was hinting – while trying hard not to risk offending the gremlins of baseball, that there was something else going on. He gestured toward the scoreboard above the bleachers. We were halfway through the game and the Orioles had yet to… I don’t want to say it, even now.
But at that moment I laughed him off. The chances were against it. The likelihood slim. There were still twelve outs to go and, anything could happen.
Just then I heard the squeals and saw, on the other side of the park, the un-mistakable signs of an entire bleacher section’s worth of humans about to breach.
A full scale Wave was just a few batters away.
It was touch and go.
We were either headed toward history, or to another day at the beach.
With every pitch that Buchholz threw a thousand more disinterested fans joined The Wave. But with every inning that the Orioles remained hitless, three thousand joined the game.
From that first full-fledged roar of undulating fans just after the fourth inning ended, each successive attempt to start a Wave grew a little smaller, quieter. By the top of the seventh, the sea of fans was amazingly calm: hardly a ripple on the surface.
It‘s normal to lose a few thousand fans by the seventh – whatever the score, but on this cool evening the crowd stayed in their seats, even seemed to grow larger. In some cases, well-to-do fans that had spent the first few innings dining inside one of the private clubs, were lured back out into the open air.
Instead of the squeal of gulls, a sound not unlike the song of whales was heard – and not just from one section of the park, but emanating from deep within the whole. You could feel the excitement growing. As the last batter took a called strike three, it was the actual game that had our full attention.
When it was over – when that perfect moment had passed, the crowed refused to leave.
36,000 people living entirely in the moment.
And then the squealing started up again.
Hamburger with Unions
How’d the strike go?
The slow-down?
The walk-out?
How is that old union of yours? I forget, what’s it called: the United Barbeque Grillers? Or is it the Amalgamated Association of Vacation Home-Owners?
It’s wonderful, isn’t it, to have a holiday all our own: a day dedicated to the former workers of America.
Most people don’t know – and would never suspect, that this cocktail party we call Labor Day was born in bloodshed and turmoil.
When the 12,000 troops called out to break the Pullman strike in the late 1890’s, shot several protesters, President Grover Cleveland felt his chances of re-election were in jeopardy, so he threw a bone to the labor movement which had been lobbying for their own holiday for years.
From the moment the first newspaper account of the tragedy hit the streets, it took only six days for the Congress to push the legislation establishing Labor Day through both houses.
President Cleveland eagerly signed it into law, and a few months later lost the election.
Labor Day was originally envisioned by socialist leaders as both a day of rest, and a chance for workers to unite, and march through small-town America, shoulder to shoulder. On this Labor Day just past most American workers were shoulder to shoulder all right, soaking up the sun on beaches coast to coast.
Today Labor Day is considered the last best chance for a family barbeque, the last gasp of the summer vacation, and the last time this year that you will be able to breeze through the city before the traffic returns to its regular weekday slog and we go about our business – without any sense of renewed camaraderie with the guy in the cubicle next to us.
At its peak though, over 50% of American workers belonged to a Union.
Today it’s one in ten.
So I suppose we can excuse what we have done to what was supposed to be a celebration of the dignity of work. Compared to Christmas, Labor Day is not so bad: that is, the celebration of the birth of Christ – as practiced in these United States, often has more in common with carnival time in Rio, than it does with the origins of the day. Americans have a particular talent for turning every holiday – regardless of its origins, into The Feast of the Miraculous Consumption. From that perspective Labor Day is almost a sacred celebration – reverently observed with closed eyes and a cold beer.
You can also argue that we live in a changed world where, perhaps, it is not as important that we have the kinds of protections that Unions once provided: especially considering that many of those same protections are now embodied in the law.
We should also acknowledge that the work force has changed dramatically – in the last 100 years, both as to the kinds of labor we perform, and the nature of our employers. There has been a dramatic increase in the number of people who work for themselves – part and full time. In large part the physical labor that many Americans were required to do – 50 years ago, has been relegated to workers in other countries (or from other countries) where, ironically, most do not have the protection of a Union. If they had more unions in China, you wouldn’t be able to buy that molded plastic dish tray for $1.99. But then again, if China had more unions, maybe America would be able to compete in areas that we have largely given up on – like steel production, computers, television and soon, cars.
Would you pay $200 more for your new flat screen television, if it meant that America had 100,000 more high paying jobs in that industry?
Would you pay $5 more for a wise-cracking President Elmo doll, to make sure that assembly line workers at the Chinese toy plant can’t be fired to make room for the plant owner’s cousins?
Then again, maybe we just can’t be bothered. Maybe we are content with our lives, with our cars, our boats, and our weekends at Foxwoods. Maybe the past successes of unions have made our lives too easy.
But are you confident that it will all be there, tomorrow?
How much of your confidence, is based on the bloated value of your home?
How much of your confidence is based on the fact that both you and your wife work? When the unions were strong, it took only one wage earner to support a family.
And for all of your things, how much time do you have to enjoy life?
Perhaps white collar workers in their glass towers need unions too?
Maybe the independent, entrepreneur working in his basement, is entitled to certain protections as well.
“Know your rights”, the Clash sang a few years back.
You have the right, they implied to metallic guitar chords, to affordable health care.
You have the right – they seemed to suggest, to reasonably priced gasoline.
You have the right, they sang, to clean air.
And privacy.
Most of us don’t worry about receiving a beating from our supervisor, or being forced to work 12 hours a day, or being locked into an unventilated room and chained to a sewing machine – and in large part unions are responsible for ending those kinds of indignities in the United States.
But many of us worry that if our parents become ill, everything they worked for will be sacrificed to pay for their care. And many of us pay half of our income for heat and gas for our cars. And every day corporations and/or the government intrude farther and farther into our private lives.
There is nothing wrong with celebrating Labor Day by lounging by the poolside, or flipping burgers, or getting that toll booth tan on the way home from the mountains. But perhaps the time has come again to remember the other part of the celebration, to remember the power that we have when we come together to protect one another.
Maybe next year Labor Day will be a day on which we actually work to ensure our rights – as worker, citizen, and inhabitant of the planet.
The slow-down?
The walk-out?
How is that old union of yours? I forget, what’s it called: the United Barbeque Grillers? Or is it the Amalgamated Association of Vacation Home-Owners?
It’s wonderful, isn’t it, to have a holiday all our own: a day dedicated to the former workers of America.
Most people don’t know – and would never suspect, that this cocktail party we call Labor Day was born in bloodshed and turmoil.
When the 12,000 troops called out to break the Pullman strike in the late 1890’s, shot several protesters, President Grover Cleveland felt his chances of re-election were in jeopardy, so he threw a bone to the labor movement which had been lobbying for their own holiday for years.
From the moment the first newspaper account of the tragedy hit the streets, it took only six days for the Congress to push the legislation establishing Labor Day through both houses.
President Cleveland eagerly signed it into law, and a few months later lost the election.
Labor Day was originally envisioned by socialist leaders as both a day of rest, and a chance for workers to unite, and march through small-town America, shoulder to shoulder. On this Labor Day just past most American workers were shoulder to shoulder all right, soaking up the sun on beaches coast to coast.
Today Labor Day is considered the last best chance for a family barbeque, the last gasp of the summer vacation, and the last time this year that you will be able to breeze through the city before the traffic returns to its regular weekday slog and we go about our business – without any sense of renewed camaraderie with the guy in the cubicle next to us.
At its peak though, over 50% of American workers belonged to a Union.
Today it’s one in ten.
So I suppose we can excuse what we have done to what was supposed to be a celebration of the dignity of work. Compared to Christmas, Labor Day is not so bad: that is, the celebration of the birth of Christ – as practiced in these United States, often has more in common with carnival time in Rio, than it does with the origins of the day. Americans have a particular talent for turning every holiday – regardless of its origins, into The Feast of the Miraculous Consumption. From that perspective Labor Day is almost a sacred celebration – reverently observed with closed eyes and a cold beer.
You can also argue that we live in a changed world where, perhaps, it is not as important that we have the kinds of protections that Unions once provided: especially considering that many of those same protections are now embodied in the law.
We should also acknowledge that the work force has changed dramatically – in the last 100 years, both as to the kinds of labor we perform, and the nature of our employers. There has been a dramatic increase in the number of people who work for themselves – part and full time. In large part the physical labor that many Americans were required to do – 50 years ago, has been relegated to workers in other countries (or from other countries) where, ironically, most do not have the protection of a Union. If they had more unions in China, you wouldn’t be able to buy that molded plastic dish tray for $1.99. But then again, if China had more unions, maybe America would be able to compete in areas that we have largely given up on – like steel production, computers, television and soon, cars.
Would you pay $200 more for your new flat screen television, if it meant that America had 100,000 more high paying jobs in that industry?
Would you pay $5 more for a wise-cracking President Elmo doll, to make sure that assembly line workers at the Chinese toy plant can’t be fired to make room for the plant owner’s cousins?
Then again, maybe we just can’t be bothered. Maybe we are content with our lives, with our cars, our boats, and our weekends at Foxwoods. Maybe the past successes of unions have made our lives too easy.
But are you confident that it will all be there, tomorrow?
How much of your confidence, is based on the bloated value of your home?
How much of your confidence is based on the fact that both you and your wife work? When the unions were strong, it took only one wage earner to support a family.
And for all of your things, how much time do you have to enjoy life?
Perhaps white collar workers in their glass towers need unions too?
Maybe the independent, entrepreneur working in his basement, is entitled to certain protections as well.
“Know your rights”, the Clash sang a few years back.
You have the right, they implied to metallic guitar chords, to affordable health care.
You have the right – they seemed to suggest, to reasonably priced gasoline.
You have the right, they sang, to clean air.
And privacy.
Most of us don’t worry about receiving a beating from our supervisor, or being forced to work 12 hours a day, or being locked into an unventilated room and chained to a sewing machine – and in large part unions are responsible for ending those kinds of indignities in the United States.
But many of us worry that if our parents become ill, everything they worked for will be sacrificed to pay for their care. And many of us pay half of our income for heat and gas for our cars. And every day corporations and/or the government intrude farther and farther into our private lives.
There is nothing wrong with celebrating Labor Day by lounging by the poolside, or flipping burgers, or getting that toll booth tan on the way home from the mountains. But perhaps the time has come again to remember the other part of the celebration, to remember the power that we have when we come together to protect one another.
Maybe next year Labor Day will be a day on which we actually work to ensure our rights – as worker, citizen, and inhabitant of the planet.
Memories of Saigon
Did you hear what the President said last week?
I heard him say that we didn’t kill enough of the enemy in Vietnam.
We didn’t burn enough of their jungles. We didn’t bomb enough of their cities. We didn’t turn enough of their women into whores, their children into orphans, our children into orphans, our soldiers into junkies.
We should have stayed, and killed more.
We should have leveled that country.
We had the opportunity.
We had the weapons.
We were just too timid.
If we had done what we had promised to do, President Bush implied, Vietnam would still be the oppressed colonial possession that it had been for decades before us.
It would only have taken a few more political assassinations.
It would only have taken a few tactical nuclear weapons.
We had the draft, so it would have been easy to add a few hundred thousand troops more, to the half million we had ‘in country’ at one time.
We could have easily added another ‘wing’ to the Vietnam memorial.
But we lost the will to win – at least according to the President, and he should know, because he was one of the first to feel that ‘will’ slipping away. He was a trained fighter pilot in 1970, but instead of fighting in Vietnam.. well, really no one knows what he did in those critical years: his records have been ‘misplaced.
But we do know that President Bush came of age, during that time, so he can speak somewhat authoritatively about how close we were to accomplishing our mission there. And the President knows that with victory come the spoils. With the defeat of the North Vietnamese Army would have come an extended guerilla war – with our troops remaining in Vietnam for years, even decades. And with America’s victory, and the necessity of fighting an insurgency in Vietnam for decades, the Vietnamese would have not been able to make the economic gains that they have made since we left. And with American troops stationed in Hanoi, China would have retained a sufficient level of paranoia about America’s intentions to justify keeping their Maoist form of government – which would have slowed their economic growth, kept Wal-Mart from having a source of cheap toys, and preserved American jobs.
Thirty years after our defeat in Southeast Asia we have to face the grim reality that Vietnam is now an economic power, a tourist destination, and that the so-called Domino Effect was real, in economic terms. Yes, with the loss in Vietnam one Southeast Asian country after another fell – like dominoes, fell to the scourge of capitalism.
That, I think, is what President Bush is warning us about: once we leave Iraq there’ll be regional turmoil, the Ahmadinejad government will lose the support of the Iranian people, and in a decade or so the oil will flow, the people will prosper, and Halliburton’s stock price will plummet.
And once we leave Iraq we will be free to focus our attention on the idiots who lied to get us into this war, didn’t plan beyond the first thirty days, and fought like hell to keep anyone from figuring out what was really going on.
Just like Vietnam, soon after we get our last troops out of there, we’ll get rid of a weak President and the Berlin Wall will fall. No, I’m sorry, I’m told that the Berlin wall is already gone: so maybe it will be the wall we’re building along the Mexican border.
In any case, you can see why President Bush wants to stay in Iraq, for as long as he can: as long as we stay the course, we can’t really get on his case.
So I have a compromise solution: let him run for office again, in Iraq.
George Bush would make a hell of an Iraqi Prime Minister: tough, resolute, and desperately in need of the American voter to keep him and his band of loonies in office.
And with George in office, in Iraq, he could say that he honored his commitment, that he didn’t ‘cut and run’, and that our boys (he could bring a few friends to ‘administrate’) are still there. And George could stay as long as he likes. They’ve got miles and miles of open space, and plenty of brush to cut. It would be like being back in Texas, and this time he might even find a little oil.
Did you hear what the President said?
People say I’ve become too cynical, but I think I heard words of encouragement, where others only heard more babbling.
I heard him say that we didn’t kill enough of the enemy in Vietnam.
We didn’t burn enough of their jungles. We didn’t bomb enough of their cities. We didn’t turn enough of their women into whores, their children into orphans, our children into orphans, our soldiers into junkies.
We should have stayed, and killed more.
We should have leveled that country.
We had the opportunity.
We had the weapons.
We were just too timid.
If we had done what we had promised to do, President Bush implied, Vietnam would still be the oppressed colonial possession that it had been for decades before us.
It would only have taken a few more political assassinations.
It would only have taken a few tactical nuclear weapons.
We had the draft, so it would have been easy to add a few hundred thousand troops more, to the half million we had ‘in country’ at one time.
We could have easily added another ‘wing’ to the Vietnam memorial.
But we lost the will to win – at least according to the President, and he should know, because he was one of the first to feel that ‘will’ slipping away. He was a trained fighter pilot in 1970, but instead of fighting in Vietnam.. well, really no one knows what he did in those critical years: his records have been ‘misplaced.
But we do know that President Bush came of age, during that time, so he can speak somewhat authoritatively about how close we were to accomplishing our mission there. And the President knows that with victory come the spoils. With the defeat of the North Vietnamese Army would have come an extended guerilla war – with our troops remaining in Vietnam for years, even decades. And with America’s victory, and the necessity of fighting an insurgency in Vietnam for decades, the Vietnamese would have not been able to make the economic gains that they have made since we left. And with American troops stationed in Hanoi, China would have retained a sufficient level of paranoia about America’s intentions to justify keeping their Maoist form of government – which would have slowed their economic growth, kept Wal-Mart from having a source of cheap toys, and preserved American jobs.
Thirty years after our defeat in Southeast Asia we have to face the grim reality that Vietnam is now an economic power, a tourist destination, and that the so-called Domino Effect was real, in economic terms. Yes, with the loss in Vietnam one Southeast Asian country after another fell – like dominoes, fell to the scourge of capitalism.
That, I think, is what President Bush is warning us about: once we leave Iraq there’ll be regional turmoil, the Ahmadinejad government will lose the support of the Iranian people, and in a decade or so the oil will flow, the people will prosper, and Halliburton’s stock price will plummet.
And once we leave Iraq we will be free to focus our attention on the idiots who lied to get us into this war, didn’t plan beyond the first thirty days, and fought like hell to keep anyone from figuring out what was really going on.
Just like Vietnam, soon after we get our last troops out of there, we’ll get rid of a weak President and the Berlin Wall will fall. No, I’m sorry, I’m told that the Berlin wall is already gone: so maybe it will be the wall we’re building along the Mexican border.
In any case, you can see why President Bush wants to stay in Iraq, for as long as he can: as long as we stay the course, we can’t really get on his case.
So I have a compromise solution: let him run for office again, in Iraq.
George Bush would make a hell of an Iraqi Prime Minister: tough, resolute, and desperately in need of the American voter to keep him and his band of loonies in office.
And with George in office, in Iraq, he could say that he honored his commitment, that he didn’t ‘cut and run’, and that our boys (he could bring a few friends to ‘administrate’) are still there. And George could stay as long as he likes. They’ve got miles and miles of open space, and plenty of brush to cut. It would be like being back in Texas, and this time he might even find a little oil.
Did you hear what the President said?
People say I’ve become too cynical, but I think I heard words of encouragement, where others only heard more babbling.
A Presidential Intervention
Dubya, we want you to know that you’re among friends, and that we are gathered here today, not out of anger, but out of concern for your well being.
We want to say, up front, that no one here is talking impeachment. Yes – let’s be honest, there have been those who have used that word, but we here today are all agreed that impeachment is neither an appropriate, nor a constructive option.
You’re a good person.
You’re a loving father.
Everything you have done, all the damage that has been done in your name, during your administration, we believe, has been as a result of your addiction to Presidential authority.
This then is an intervention, not an impeachment. We do not want you removed from office – we simply want to provide a place for you to spend the final months of your Presidency, where you will be cared for, and where you will not have easy access to the authority that has caused your family, friends, and the American people, so much harm over the last six years.
We are ready to send you there.
We have a room reserved for you.
We have all chipped in, and this will not cost you a cent. And in terms of the American people, overall, we’ll save billions.
Ultimately though, this has to be your decision – your final decision as Commander in Chief. But before you make up your mind, there are a few people who have expressed a desire to let you know how they feel.
First, we’re going to hear from your former rival, the man who should have been declared President in 2000, Al Gore.
“I’m going to get right to the point, Dubya old friend. Take a good look around you – at this beautiful country of ours. Record temperatures, drought, floods, New Orleans: do I have to say more? I think you mean well, old friend. You talked a good game – back in 2000: Compassionate Conservatism, you called it. Face it, friend, you need help.”
Thanks Al. Now George, we’re going to hear from your old friend and confidant, the Reverend Billy Graham.
“George. I’ve advised world leaders since the days of old Ike Eisenhauer, who by the way was nearly as thick as you – and in all that time I’ve never met a King or a Prime Minister or a President as stubborn as you, son. In six years, despite debacle after debacle, you have never admitted to one mistake. Oh sure, you said you regretted the words you used, on occasion. But it’s not the words son – it’s the deeds. Your deeds give the lie to your words, son.“
Thanks Reverend Graham. Now George we’re going to hear from a surprise guest, your father, #41, George the First.
“What the hell is going on, Georgie? I didn’t go into Baghdad, so you had to? You had to show me that you were smarter, right? Heck son, you were President of the Texas Rangers and look how well they’ve done. You ‘d do as well to put a Major League team in Iraq. Who wants to sit out in the middle of the desert, baking in the Arlington sun, and watch the Rangers lose? I really don’t think you were ever qualified to be President son. I didn’t say it at the time, well, because I thought that boy Karl could turn a turnip into a President. But really son, you were unprepared. Being Governor of Texas is like being Sheriff of Tombstone: you arrest the drunks and let the bad guys fight it out in the streets. Hell son, you’d have made a damn good Mayor of Baghdad with your experience: just smile and pass the hookah hose - but President of the United States? What are you, on crack? You want to stay in Iraq because otherwise it will be like Vietnam? You been to Vietnam lately, son? The best thing we did for them was get the heck out of Dodge. We killed a million Vietnamese. Should we have stayed and killed more, lost more of our own? I don’t get it son. You’re not making any sense. You’re still a Texas Turnip son, you’ve just been boiled and mashed.”
Thank you Mr. President. And now.. Mr. President, your wife wants to say a few words.
“George, look at me, I’m talking to you! George, you know I’m thankful for our life together, our two beautiful girls. When I met you I was a school teacher, and I have to thank God – and you George, that I am not still a school teacher, forced to spend the whole year teaching to the No Child Left Behind test, for a salary that first year college graduates would turn their noses up at. George, I have to say that you are the most anti-intellectual person I have ever known. You reject what your scientific advisers tell you, what your medical advisers tell you, what your foreign policy experts tell you, and instead you rely on what you are told by preachers, pollsters, professional bureaucrats, and angry old ideologues. You don’t have an administration George, you have a gang, and frankly, dear, they’re making a fool of you. They’ll all just fade away and write books in the next year or two – leave you hanging. You need to go away too George, you need to get away from all the bad influences in your life. Please, George, please, go away now.
Thank you Laura. And now George, it’s decision time. Are you ready to get the help you need, and by doing so, help your fellow Americans. Or are you going to stumble your way through another 18 months, pretending to have a plan – trying desperately to pass off your screw-ups on the next administration. What’s it going to be George? There’s still time to do what’s right. There’s still time to see the light. What’s it going to be?
We want to say, up front, that no one here is talking impeachment. Yes – let’s be honest, there have been those who have used that word, but we here today are all agreed that impeachment is neither an appropriate, nor a constructive option.
You’re a good person.
You’re a loving father.
Everything you have done, all the damage that has been done in your name, during your administration, we believe, has been as a result of your addiction to Presidential authority.
This then is an intervention, not an impeachment. We do not want you removed from office – we simply want to provide a place for you to spend the final months of your Presidency, where you will be cared for, and where you will not have easy access to the authority that has caused your family, friends, and the American people, so much harm over the last six years.
We are ready to send you there.
We have a room reserved for you.
We have all chipped in, and this will not cost you a cent. And in terms of the American people, overall, we’ll save billions.
Ultimately though, this has to be your decision – your final decision as Commander in Chief. But before you make up your mind, there are a few people who have expressed a desire to let you know how they feel.
First, we’re going to hear from your former rival, the man who should have been declared President in 2000, Al Gore.
“I’m going to get right to the point, Dubya old friend. Take a good look around you – at this beautiful country of ours. Record temperatures, drought, floods, New Orleans: do I have to say more? I think you mean well, old friend. You talked a good game – back in 2000: Compassionate Conservatism, you called it. Face it, friend, you need help.”
Thanks Al. Now George, we’re going to hear from your old friend and confidant, the Reverend Billy Graham.
“George. I’ve advised world leaders since the days of old Ike Eisenhauer, who by the way was nearly as thick as you – and in all that time I’ve never met a King or a Prime Minister or a President as stubborn as you, son. In six years, despite debacle after debacle, you have never admitted to one mistake. Oh sure, you said you regretted the words you used, on occasion. But it’s not the words son – it’s the deeds. Your deeds give the lie to your words, son.“
Thanks Reverend Graham. Now George we’re going to hear from a surprise guest, your father, #41, George the First.
“What the hell is going on, Georgie? I didn’t go into Baghdad, so you had to? You had to show me that you were smarter, right? Heck son, you were President of the Texas Rangers and look how well they’ve done. You ‘d do as well to put a Major League team in Iraq. Who wants to sit out in the middle of the desert, baking in the Arlington sun, and watch the Rangers lose? I really don’t think you were ever qualified to be President son. I didn’t say it at the time, well, because I thought that boy Karl could turn a turnip into a President. But really son, you were unprepared. Being Governor of Texas is like being Sheriff of Tombstone: you arrest the drunks and let the bad guys fight it out in the streets. Hell son, you’d have made a damn good Mayor of Baghdad with your experience: just smile and pass the hookah hose - but President of the United States? What are you, on crack? You want to stay in Iraq because otherwise it will be like Vietnam? You been to Vietnam lately, son? The best thing we did for them was get the heck out of Dodge. We killed a million Vietnamese. Should we have stayed and killed more, lost more of our own? I don’t get it son. You’re not making any sense. You’re still a Texas Turnip son, you’ve just been boiled and mashed.”
Thank you Mr. President. And now.. Mr. President, your wife wants to say a few words.
“George, look at me, I’m talking to you! George, you know I’m thankful for our life together, our two beautiful girls. When I met you I was a school teacher, and I have to thank God – and you George, that I am not still a school teacher, forced to spend the whole year teaching to the No Child Left Behind test, for a salary that first year college graduates would turn their noses up at. George, I have to say that you are the most anti-intellectual person I have ever known. You reject what your scientific advisers tell you, what your medical advisers tell you, what your foreign policy experts tell you, and instead you rely on what you are told by preachers, pollsters, professional bureaucrats, and angry old ideologues. You don’t have an administration George, you have a gang, and frankly, dear, they’re making a fool of you. They’ll all just fade away and write books in the next year or two – leave you hanging. You need to go away too George, you need to get away from all the bad influences in your life. Please, George, please, go away now.
Thank you Laura. And now George, it’s decision time. Are you ready to get the help you need, and by doing so, help your fellow Americans. Or are you going to stumble your way through another 18 months, pretending to have a plan – trying desperately to pass off your screw-ups on the next administration. What’s it going to be George? There’s still time to do what’s right. There’s still time to see the light. What’s it going to be?
Dolores, in Space
I’m not sure if I’ve told, you, but I’m a big fan of junkers – which I define as a car that costs less than $1000, has at least 125,000 miles that the previous owner admits to, and emits a combination of sounds that – altogether, are like the sound of a moose in heat.
I haven’t owned a new car for over twenty years and, honestly, I don’t know if I could. I don’t think I could bring myself to spending that kind of cash – even if I had bundles of it, after so many cheap rides.
My present transportation is a ’93 aquamarine Ford Escort wagon, with over 150K on the odometer, a permanent puddle of rust-colored water where the spare should be, and air vents that have some kind of lockjaw: the heat and AC actually work, but the air can’t make it through and when I try, it makes a sound not unlike my first saxophone lesson. Overall the sound of this car rolling down the highway is a combination of whistling, groaning, creaking, and muffler-about-to-go kind of croak that my wife can hear – and recognize, from so far away that she has time to cook my favorite meal before I get home. (She has time, I said, but that doesn’t mean she cooks it).
As junkers go, Dolores (I name all my junkers) is a ‘beaut’. I’ve had her for going on three years now and – though I haven’t put any serious new mileage on it – I did take it to the White Mountains a few years back without incident. I have replaced the alternator, purchased a few tires, and changed the oil twice. The grand total that I have spent on the maintenance of Dolores – after almost three years, is under $250, which although it represents a full quarter of her purchase price, is less than some people spend on gas in a month.
When I see a new car pass me by on the road – the word that first comes to mind is – ‘suckers’.
I see no reason at all for ever purchasing a new car.
I see very little reason for ever purchasing what they like to call a ‘previously owned vehicle’.
I would be hard pressed to buy a used car off a dealer’s lot.
I believe that junkers are the answer to my needs – both personal and scientific.
All of which is why I am especially concerned about Dolores’ final days.
I have to face it – she is already, by definition, driving on borrowed time. If a certified mechanic was to take a good, close look under her hood, they would be ethically bound to have me restrained while Dolores was humanely ‘put down’.
I expect the worse – but then again, that’s part of the real pleasure of driving a junker: anything and everything could and should go wrong – so why worry.
When you buy a new car, part of the justification for the ridiculous amount of money you spend, is that you are officially assured that nothing will go wrong – at least for a year or so. But you know, from experience, that something will – and even if it doesn’t happen right away, you have spent so much that even the lack of perfection is annoying.
You paid, on average, $30,000 for that new car, so what the heck is making that annoying noise?
I paid $1000 for mine, so I expect and even take comfort in Dolores’ annoying noises.
You are on the hook for monthly payments for five years, so why couldn’t they give you a real spare tire – instead of a donut?
Dolores actually has donuts on all four wheels, and does just fine with them.
Anyway, the point is that I want to do right by Dolores, in the end, so I am not going to abandon her by the side of the road in Maine, or add her to the automotive sculpture that I am erecting – by default, in my backyard.
Instead I am going to donate her to charity.
And there’s my dilemma: which charity do I choose? Which charity would be a fitting, if figurative tombstone for dear Dolores?
They’re all in the act now, you’ve probably noticed: you can donate your old car to Muscular Dystrophy, Public Radio, the American Cancer Society, and just about every non-profit you can think of.
I’ve tried them all – over the years, and though the guy who comes to pick them up to take them to the big smelter in Taunton, always looks the same, it feels a little different every time.
What I was really hoping is that I could donate Dolores to NASA. Clearly, they need the money but, more importantly, they seem to have the most respect for the concept of the junker. Most government agencies get their executives new vehicles every year – but NASA seems committed to keeping their old vehicles running year after year.
They’ve had their share of breakdowns, malfunctions, and outright disasters too – but that hasn’t stopped them from slapping on a coat of paint, replacing a tire or two, and getting those old shuttles back ‘on the road’, so to speak.
NASA’s not embarrassed by a few dings here and there, a missing tile, or an astronaut or two that don’t make it back. They know that – if they had to go to Congress for the cash for a new vehicle, they’d face some tough questions, so like me they’ve figured it’s easier just to keep the old fleet running.
I think Dolores would be happy there.
I think it would be a fitting end to her ‘time on Earth’.
I’d get a real kick out of lying back on my hammock, looking up at the stars, and imagining that little speck of light moving across the dark heavens is in fact – in some small way, part Dolores. And if I close my eyes and listen, I might even be able to hear the inimitable sound of a junker in orbit.
I haven’t owned a new car for over twenty years and, honestly, I don’t know if I could. I don’t think I could bring myself to spending that kind of cash – even if I had bundles of it, after so many cheap rides.
My present transportation is a ’93 aquamarine Ford Escort wagon, with over 150K on the odometer, a permanent puddle of rust-colored water where the spare should be, and air vents that have some kind of lockjaw: the heat and AC actually work, but the air can’t make it through and when I try, it makes a sound not unlike my first saxophone lesson. Overall the sound of this car rolling down the highway is a combination of whistling, groaning, creaking, and muffler-about-to-go kind of croak that my wife can hear – and recognize, from so far away that she has time to cook my favorite meal before I get home. (She has time, I said, but that doesn’t mean she cooks it).
As junkers go, Dolores (I name all my junkers) is a ‘beaut’. I’ve had her for going on three years now and – though I haven’t put any serious new mileage on it – I did take it to the White Mountains a few years back without incident. I have replaced the alternator, purchased a few tires, and changed the oil twice. The grand total that I have spent on the maintenance of Dolores – after almost three years, is under $250, which although it represents a full quarter of her purchase price, is less than some people spend on gas in a month.
When I see a new car pass me by on the road – the word that first comes to mind is – ‘suckers’.
I see no reason at all for ever purchasing a new car.
I see very little reason for ever purchasing what they like to call a ‘previously owned vehicle’.
I would be hard pressed to buy a used car off a dealer’s lot.
I believe that junkers are the answer to my needs – both personal and scientific.
All of which is why I am especially concerned about Dolores’ final days.
I have to face it – she is already, by definition, driving on borrowed time. If a certified mechanic was to take a good, close look under her hood, they would be ethically bound to have me restrained while Dolores was humanely ‘put down’.
I expect the worse – but then again, that’s part of the real pleasure of driving a junker: anything and everything could and should go wrong – so why worry.
When you buy a new car, part of the justification for the ridiculous amount of money you spend, is that you are officially assured that nothing will go wrong – at least for a year or so. But you know, from experience, that something will – and even if it doesn’t happen right away, you have spent so much that even the lack of perfection is annoying.
You paid, on average, $30,000 for that new car, so what the heck is making that annoying noise?
I paid $1000 for mine, so I expect and even take comfort in Dolores’ annoying noises.
You are on the hook for monthly payments for five years, so why couldn’t they give you a real spare tire – instead of a donut?
Dolores actually has donuts on all four wheels, and does just fine with them.
Anyway, the point is that I want to do right by Dolores, in the end, so I am not going to abandon her by the side of the road in Maine, or add her to the automotive sculpture that I am erecting – by default, in my backyard.
Instead I am going to donate her to charity.
And there’s my dilemma: which charity do I choose? Which charity would be a fitting, if figurative tombstone for dear Dolores?
They’re all in the act now, you’ve probably noticed: you can donate your old car to Muscular Dystrophy, Public Radio, the American Cancer Society, and just about every non-profit you can think of.
I’ve tried them all – over the years, and though the guy who comes to pick them up to take them to the big smelter in Taunton, always looks the same, it feels a little different every time.
What I was really hoping is that I could donate Dolores to NASA. Clearly, they need the money but, more importantly, they seem to have the most respect for the concept of the junker. Most government agencies get their executives new vehicles every year – but NASA seems committed to keeping their old vehicles running year after year.
They’ve had their share of breakdowns, malfunctions, and outright disasters too – but that hasn’t stopped them from slapping on a coat of paint, replacing a tire or two, and getting those old shuttles back ‘on the road’, so to speak.
NASA’s not embarrassed by a few dings here and there, a missing tile, or an astronaut or two that don’t make it back. They know that – if they had to go to Congress for the cash for a new vehicle, they’d face some tough questions, so like me they’ve figured it’s easier just to keep the old fleet running.
I think Dolores would be happy there.
I think it would be a fitting end to her ‘time on Earth’.
I’d get a real kick out of lying back on my hammock, looking up at the stars, and imagining that little speck of light moving across the dark heavens is in fact – in some small way, part Dolores. And if I close my eyes and listen, I might even be able to hear the inimitable sound of a junker in orbit.
Ugly, The Sequel
I’m stuck on ugly.
A person can be ugly, a crowd can turn ugly, even a cow – according to the American Heritage Dictionary, can behave ugly.
Plymouth is, in civic terms, ugly.
How can you not love ugly?
Actually, I think you can – love ugly: I’d even venture to say that Americans make ugly love every day.
So in the positive spirit of ugly I am going to spend my words this week on a description of what I think are the ugliest buildings in town.
Come on, you know you have your favorites.
Let’s start off in the eastern part of town – the Far Eastern.
A little bit of old Beijing, in Cedarville: that’s my impression of the new MRI facility in Cedarville.
For weeks I held off making a final judgment, as this behemoth rose in to the air on a hill off Hedges Pond Road.
I tried to guess what it was going to be. The location seemed odd for your typical strip mall. The height seemed all wrong for a restaurant. The Qing Dynasty had ended in 1911.
I would never have guessed that we were getting our very own magnetic marvel. No wonder my fillings ache every time I drive by!
The only thing keeping this building from being certifiably ugly is that it’s out of the way. If you don’t see the ugly, how ugly can it be?
The John Carver Hotel is another story altogether: another two or three stories, actually.
The entrance to the John Carver – with its 30 foot white faux columns, is the pseudo-colonial equivalent of the Hilltop restaurant’s giant cactus on Route 1 in Saugus. But whereas the kitsch of the cactus and the herd of plastic cattle at the Hilltop fit in with the rest of Route 1’s over-the-top Americana, The Carver’s massive columns are preposterously out of proportion to its surroundings, not to mention our historical milieu.
But are they – the columns, really ugly?
Historically, yes. Architecturally, definitely. Taken out of context, probably not.
The same might be said of another hotel – the Governor Bradford on the waterfront.
I studied this building for quite a while, and was not quite able to figure out what the architect was trying to say. I definitely see the influence of the Swiss Chalet style of hotel design, a trace of Tudor, a hint of colonial clapboard and.. then there’s a lattice-work brick wall culminating in a turreted hot dog stand.
Maybe they had big plans, and a small budget. The structure does remind me of the David Lynch film, Dune. Up to a point, Dune had some great effects – but then the money ran out and the penultimate scenes of the Fremen riding the giant spice worms look preposterous.
(Then again, dignified giant worm wrangling might just be an impossible feat for any director, at any price.)
If the Pilgrims had seen the Bradford when they first came in to the harbor, they would have dog-paddled back to Britain.
And what do you think of the latest restaurant to stake a claim in the economically muddy waters of Court Street – T-Bones Roadhouse?
Within a block of Burial Hill, and practically overlooking the Plymouth Rock, T-Bones built a steel metal store front with a giant letter slot facing the street.
On the hot summer night that I first saw T-Bones I felt it looked like a garage for a hovercraft, or something you’d stick on top of the Enron headquarters in Texas. I’d say it doesn’t really fit in with the historic architecture of Court Street, but then again - architecturally speaking, Court Street lost its way long before T-Bones rock and rolled into town. And on a second drive-by on a cold, wet day, I discovered that they could cover that mail slot with a large metal shutter that has the appearance of a traditional paned window – a much more appropriate look for Court Street.
Whatever seasons we are in, I don’t want to single out T-Bones. There have been many pseudo-modern store fronts downtown on Court Street in the last 25 years – CVS and Puritan Clothing to name two that come to mind. And I could come up with many more structures – both modern and faux colonial, that I believe should never have been built in historic Plymouth, like Jordan Hospital’s Pop-Art Concrete Slabs and the Fire Department’s Headquarters on Sandwich Street. I think it’s a shame that when tourists first reach the historic intersection of Old 44 and 3A that they are greeted by your standard, out of the box, pump and run Gulf and Mobil Service Stations. And if you came from Mars and landed in the middle of any one of our new ‘retail prairie towns’ off Long Pond Road and Commerce Way, you wouldn’t know if you were in Indiana, Arizona, or Maine. Massachusetts? Impossible!
In a forest of ugly trees, which ones do you take the axe to first?
I could go on, but I don’t want to seem mean spirited. And I have to hold back a few of my favorites for Ugly, Part 3. So let me be constructive. My sense is that we desperately need an Ugly Planning Board, or at least a subcommittee dedicated to either bringing a consistency to the ugliness around us, or eliminating it altogether.
I thought we had that covered.
I had assumed that there must be an adjunct committee of some board that was supposed to safeguard the town’s image.
Maybe Mayor Buechs will beautify things.
Or maybe we should just accept that – with a few notable exceptions, architecturally at least we are Weymouth-bound.
And anyway, who am I to talk: I’m stuck on ugly.
A person can be ugly, a crowd can turn ugly, even a cow – according to the American Heritage Dictionary, can behave ugly.
Plymouth is, in civic terms, ugly.
How can you not love ugly?
Actually, I think you can – love ugly: I’d even venture to say that Americans make ugly love every day.
So in the positive spirit of ugly I am going to spend my words this week on a description of what I think are the ugliest buildings in town.
Come on, you know you have your favorites.
Let’s start off in the eastern part of town – the Far Eastern.
A little bit of old Beijing, in Cedarville: that’s my impression of the new MRI facility in Cedarville.
For weeks I held off making a final judgment, as this behemoth rose in to the air on a hill off Hedges Pond Road.
I tried to guess what it was going to be. The location seemed odd for your typical strip mall. The height seemed all wrong for a restaurant. The Qing Dynasty had ended in 1911.
I would never have guessed that we were getting our very own magnetic marvel. No wonder my fillings ache every time I drive by!
The only thing keeping this building from being certifiably ugly is that it’s out of the way. If you don’t see the ugly, how ugly can it be?
The John Carver Hotel is another story altogether: another two or three stories, actually.
The entrance to the John Carver – with its 30 foot white faux columns, is the pseudo-colonial equivalent of the Hilltop restaurant’s giant cactus on Route 1 in Saugus. But whereas the kitsch of the cactus and the herd of plastic cattle at the Hilltop fit in with the rest of Route 1’s over-the-top Americana, The Carver’s massive columns are preposterously out of proportion to its surroundings, not to mention our historical milieu.
But are they – the columns, really ugly?
Historically, yes. Architecturally, definitely. Taken out of context, probably not.
The same might be said of another hotel – the Governor Bradford on the waterfront.
I studied this building for quite a while, and was not quite able to figure out what the architect was trying to say. I definitely see the influence of the Swiss Chalet style of hotel design, a trace of Tudor, a hint of colonial clapboard and.. then there’s a lattice-work brick wall culminating in a turreted hot dog stand.
Maybe they had big plans, and a small budget. The structure does remind me of the David Lynch film, Dune. Up to a point, Dune had some great effects – but then the money ran out and the penultimate scenes of the Fremen riding the giant spice worms look preposterous.
(Then again, dignified giant worm wrangling might just be an impossible feat for any director, at any price.)
If the Pilgrims had seen the Bradford when they first came in to the harbor, they would have dog-paddled back to Britain.
And what do you think of the latest restaurant to stake a claim in the economically muddy waters of Court Street – T-Bones Roadhouse?
Within a block of Burial Hill, and practically overlooking the Plymouth Rock, T-Bones built a steel metal store front with a giant letter slot facing the street.
On the hot summer night that I first saw T-Bones I felt it looked like a garage for a hovercraft, or something you’d stick on top of the Enron headquarters in Texas. I’d say it doesn’t really fit in with the historic architecture of Court Street, but then again - architecturally speaking, Court Street lost its way long before T-Bones rock and rolled into town. And on a second drive-by on a cold, wet day, I discovered that they could cover that mail slot with a large metal shutter that has the appearance of a traditional paned window – a much more appropriate look for Court Street.
Whatever seasons we are in, I don’t want to single out T-Bones. There have been many pseudo-modern store fronts downtown on Court Street in the last 25 years – CVS and Puritan Clothing to name two that come to mind. And I could come up with many more structures – both modern and faux colonial, that I believe should never have been built in historic Plymouth, like Jordan Hospital’s Pop-Art Concrete Slabs and the Fire Department’s Headquarters on Sandwich Street. I think it’s a shame that when tourists first reach the historic intersection of Old 44 and 3A that they are greeted by your standard, out of the box, pump and run Gulf and Mobil Service Stations. And if you came from Mars and landed in the middle of any one of our new ‘retail prairie towns’ off Long Pond Road and Commerce Way, you wouldn’t know if you were in Indiana, Arizona, or Maine. Massachusetts? Impossible!
In a forest of ugly trees, which ones do you take the axe to first?
I could go on, but I don’t want to seem mean spirited. And I have to hold back a few of my favorites for Ugly, Part 3. So let me be constructive. My sense is that we desperately need an Ugly Planning Board, or at least a subcommittee dedicated to either bringing a consistency to the ugliness around us, or eliminating it altogether.
I thought we had that covered.
I had assumed that there must be an adjunct committee of some board that was supposed to safeguard the town’s image.
Maybe Mayor Buechs will beautify things.
Or maybe we should just accept that – with a few notable exceptions, architecturally at least we are Weymouth-bound.
And anyway, who am I to talk: I’m stuck on ugly.
It's Getting Ugly Out There
I’m trying to figure out the best adjective for Plymouth: trying to come up with one term that sums up the look and the feel of life in this community, today.
Everybody’s talking about what the town used to be like, or what they think the town could be, tomorrow – but I am not sure we have a clear sense of what Plymouth is like, right now.
According to Bucci’s List of Civic Stereotypes – the bible of travel writers, a town can be Scary, One-Horse, Rustic, Sleepy, Picturesque, Out of the Way, Rural, Quaint, Provincial, Ugly, Charming, Tony, Bustling, or Weymouth-like.
I know that there quite a few people in town who aspire to ‘Weymouth-like, but I haven’t made a final decision.
Right now I’m leaning toward Ugly.
Ugly is a great word, a powerful word – a word that has somehow maintained its ragged, rusty, nasty edge in this age of the dull and the pointless.
Ugly is just short of profanity – just shy of offensive, and if properly expressed, contains trace amounts of grudging appreciation: you know, the kind of appreciation you express when someone lands a great belly flop in the backyard pool.
“Oooh,” the onlookers exclaim, as the sound of that belly slapping the water reverberates around them, “that was ugly!”
There is even another definition of ugly –according to the American Heritage Dictionary, a definition peculiar to New England: ugly, as in ‘Unmanageable: applied to animals, especially cows or horses.’
In this case I am not applying it to cows or horses, but to the town as a whole.
Plymouth is a great big, unmanageable, out of control belly-flop of a community.
How’s that sound?
Again, I don’t mean to imply that Plymouth is ugly to look at. Plymouth is in fact, still pretty, in places. Ugly, according to Bucci’s, refers to that state of socio-economic being that falls somewhere between ‘quaint’ and ‘bustling’.
Some towns manage to skip over ugly entirely. Some towns go from ‘one-horse’, to ‘charming’ in one easy step.
Duxbury started off like Plymouth – with a few pilgrims, some boat building, farmers, and tradesman, but seems to have gone straight to charming. Then again, I’ve heard other adjectives applied to Duxbury.
For most communities though, the changes are painful, and there is no skipping over any of the stages.
In terms of these stages, I believe that the progression goes something like this:
Most towns start off as Scary. A Scary town is usually comprised of a few, apparently abandoned homes that rumor suggests were built by unknown individuals who made pacts with the devil, but perished nonetheless. In some cases these abandoned buildings have become video rental stores.
Carver is an example of a Scary town.
The next stage is often called the ‘One-Horse’, or its updated version, the ‘One Traffic Light’ town.
If a town persists too long in the one-horse state, it often moves involuntarily into ‘rustic’. Rustic is a dangerous condition. A town that is said to be rustic, is in a kind of holding pattern. A rustic town can only go in one of two ways – toward decrepit, or toward picturesque.
According to my sources, Plympton is an officially ‘Rustic’ community.
Plymouth itself was once officially rustic, in the late 1700’s, but owing largely to its historical significance, moved into a picturesque phase somewhere around 1805.
Most towns however – Plymouth included, are unable to hold on to the picturesque phase for very long. When a town is known to be picturesque otherwise well-meaning people move into town, build authentic imitation salt boxes and/or California Ranch-style homes, and become town meeting members.
At this point I think we need to differentiate between two civic phases that are often lumped together, but are in fact worlds apart: quaint and charming.
Quaint, is a classic ‘damn with faint praise’ adjective. By calling a town quaint we are suggesting that, though at one time it was picturesque, most of the older homes have been converted to funeral homes, real estate offices, or pizza parlors, mainly through the addition of colorful awnings. The dictionary definition of quaint is, “having an old-fashioned attractiveness or charm; oddly picturesque”. The emphasis here, I would say, should be on the odd. And the oddness is derived, I would further suggest, from the illusion that we are referring to a small town. You wouldn’t call Boston or Providence quaint, but oftentimes a large town or small city insists that it still qualifies for quaint-ness.
A quaint old town is actually a fairly heavily populated town, with most of the growth occurring outside the old town center – creating a built-in conflict between the image and reality of the community, and between the newcomers and the townies. To be quaint, I believe, is to be confused.
Kingston is very quaint.
The charming community is very different indeed.
The charming community is one that has, in large part, evolved as a whole. It need not be picturesque. It need not be well-to-do. It need only have a certain, undeniable charm.
According to recent census data, there are only three officially charming towns in all of Massachusetts: Woods Hole, Cummington, and Sterling.
There are however, 87 towns in Massachusetts that think they are charming.
When a quaint town thinks it is a charming town, and holds fast to that illusion, it is official designated ‘provincial’ – that is, ‘having or showing the manners, viewpoints, etc., considered characteristic of unsophisticated inhabitants of a province.’
Believing that you are charming, when you are not, is like believing that you are ‘good looking’ when you are not: like the middle-aged guy at the bar who, after a few drinks, starts to flirt with the waitresses. Pretty soon, things start to get Ugly.
And it’s only a 30 minute drive from Ugly to Weymouth.
Next week: The Ugliest Buildings in Town!
Everybody’s talking about what the town used to be like, or what they think the town could be, tomorrow – but I am not sure we have a clear sense of what Plymouth is like, right now.
According to Bucci’s List of Civic Stereotypes – the bible of travel writers, a town can be Scary, One-Horse, Rustic, Sleepy, Picturesque, Out of the Way, Rural, Quaint, Provincial, Ugly, Charming, Tony, Bustling, or Weymouth-like.
I know that there quite a few people in town who aspire to ‘Weymouth-like, but I haven’t made a final decision.
Right now I’m leaning toward Ugly.
Ugly is a great word, a powerful word – a word that has somehow maintained its ragged, rusty, nasty edge in this age of the dull and the pointless.
Ugly is just short of profanity – just shy of offensive, and if properly expressed, contains trace amounts of grudging appreciation: you know, the kind of appreciation you express when someone lands a great belly flop in the backyard pool.
“Oooh,” the onlookers exclaim, as the sound of that belly slapping the water reverberates around them, “that was ugly!”
There is even another definition of ugly –according to the American Heritage Dictionary, a definition peculiar to New England: ugly, as in ‘Unmanageable: applied to animals, especially cows or horses.’
In this case I am not applying it to cows or horses, but to the town as a whole.
Plymouth is a great big, unmanageable, out of control belly-flop of a community.
How’s that sound?
Again, I don’t mean to imply that Plymouth is ugly to look at. Plymouth is in fact, still pretty, in places. Ugly, according to Bucci’s, refers to that state of socio-economic being that falls somewhere between ‘quaint’ and ‘bustling’.
Some towns manage to skip over ugly entirely. Some towns go from ‘one-horse’, to ‘charming’ in one easy step.
Duxbury started off like Plymouth – with a few pilgrims, some boat building, farmers, and tradesman, but seems to have gone straight to charming. Then again, I’ve heard other adjectives applied to Duxbury.
For most communities though, the changes are painful, and there is no skipping over any of the stages.
In terms of these stages, I believe that the progression goes something like this:
Most towns start off as Scary. A Scary town is usually comprised of a few, apparently abandoned homes that rumor suggests were built by unknown individuals who made pacts with the devil, but perished nonetheless. In some cases these abandoned buildings have become video rental stores.
Carver is an example of a Scary town.
The next stage is often called the ‘One-Horse’, or its updated version, the ‘One Traffic Light’ town.
If a town persists too long in the one-horse state, it often moves involuntarily into ‘rustic’. Rustic is a dangerous condition. A town that is said to be rustic, is in a kind of holding pattern. A rustic town can only go in one of two ways – toward decrepit, or toward picturesque.
According to my sources, Plympton is an officially ‘Rustic’ community.
Plymouth itself was once officially rustic, in the late 1700’s, but owing largely to its historical significance, moved into a picturesque phase somewhere around 1805.
Most towns however – Plymouth included, are unable to hold on to the picturesque phase for very long. When a town is known to be picturesque otherwise well-meaning people move into town, build authentic imitation salt boxes and/or California Ranch-style homes, and become town meeting members.
At this point I think we need to differentiate between two civic phases that are often lumped together, but are in fact worlds apart: quaint and charming.
Quaint, is a classic ‘damn with faint praise’ adjective. By calling a town quaint we are suggesting that, though at one time it was picturesque, most of the older homes have been converted to funeral homes, real estate offices, or pizza parlors, mainly through the addition of colorful awnings. The dictionary definition of quaint is, “having an old-fashioned attractiveness or charm; oddly picturesque”. The emphasis here, I would say, should be on the odd. And the oddness is derived, I would further suggest, from the illusion that we are referring to a small town. You wouldn’t call Boston or Providence quaint, but oftentimes a large town or small city insists that it still qualifies for quaint-ness.
A quaint old town is actually a fairly heavily populated town, with most of the growth occurring outside the old town center – creating a built-in conflict between the image and reality of the community, and between the newcomers and the townies. To be quaint, I believe, is to be confused.
Kingston is very quaint.
The charming community is very different indeed.
The charming community is one that has, in large part, evolved as a whole. It need not be picturesque. It need not be well-to-do. It need only have a certain, undeniable charm.
According to recent census data, there are only three officially charming towns in all of Massachusetts: Woods Hole, Cummington, and Sterling.
There are however, 87 towns in Massachusetts that think they are charming.
When a quaint town thinks it is a charming town, and holds fast to that illusion, it is official designated ‘provincial’ – that is, ‘having or showing the manners, viewpoints, etc., considered characteristic of unsophisticated inhabitants of a province.’
Believing that you are charming, when you are not, is like believing that you are ‘good looking’ when you are not: like the middle-aged guy at the bar who, after a few drinks, starts to flirt with the waitresses. Pretty soon, things start to get Ugly.
And it’s only a 30 minute drive from Ugly to Weymouth.
Next week: The Ugliest Buildings in Town!
Hollyweird in the Home Town
9:25 a.m.: arrest, 23-year-old man
arrested on warrant for charges including
assault with a dangerous weapon.
The film folks have left town, and just in time. We wouldn’t want any professionals horning in on our new, home-town reality series.
This is a casting call for Hollyweird in the Home Town.
Here’s the premise: despite the country’s obsession with the hi-jinks of the honeys of the Hollywood Hills, ‘folks round here’ are just as messed up.
We may be pulled over by the police while driving an old Escort Wagon, or a rusted-out Ford F150 though Manomet, instead of a Porsche or a Lotus through Malibu - but we’re just as high, just as arrogant, just as likely to get off with a slap on the wrist as our role models out there in La-La-Land.
12:10 p.m.: arrest, 21-year-old Plymouth man
arrested on warrant for charge of assault and battery
with a dangerous weapon, Manomet Point Road
The premise of our show is that this is La-La-Land too.
So we are looking for act-a-likes. We don’t care if you look like Lindsey or Nicole, and we certainly don’t expect you to have their cash. But if you have that same, perpetual ‘I could have had a V-8’ expression on your face, have “Rip Tides RIP” tattooed just above the crack of your ass, think your poop smells like pop-tarts, and have been chosen to be a spokes model for Breathalyzer, we want you!
We can’t pay much but, if selected, you will receive your own faux-police dossier with full color mug shots.
We can’t guarantee you the cover of Weekly World News, but you are sure to have your face plastered all across the local papers, and be featured prominently in the local police log.
1:15 p.m.: arrest, 19-year-old Plymouth man
charged with simple possession of Class D substance
The structure of our reality program won’t be anything out of the ordinary: just another pointless competition meant to bring out the worst from a dozen or so local yahoos – but with a grand prize of a 30 day stay at one of the country’s leading rehab centers.
Each week contestants chosen from the local police log will be given $10 and left off at a pre-selected bar or local party with no ID, no credit cards, and the goal of becoming legally intoxicated, borrowing a friends car, and driving themselves to the police station to ask for directions to the nearest McDonalds – and all within four hours.
In the end five finalists will be arrested and charged with disorderly conduct, DUI, possession of a Class D Substance, and assigned a local lawyer .
The finalist who receives the lightest sentence will be declared the winner.
8:01 p.m.: arrest, 39-year-old Plymouth woman charged with
simple possession of Class B substance, simple possession of
Class D substance and possession of Class B substance with
intent to distribute
Don’t sneeze at the prize: the winner may not be cured of their behaviors at the rehab center, but their room will have a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean, and the food there is to die for.
More importantly though, this reality series will awaken Americans to the fact that no one area of the country has a monopoly on spoiled, irresponsible young adults, whacked out judges, or absentee parents.
I firmly believe that if we are going to lock up young actresses for reckless behavior, we need to lock up young convenience store employees too.
If we are going to put the mug shots of drunken actors on the nightly news, then we should be putting the mug shots of our own friends and family on public access television.
And I believe there should be financial parity as well. If Nicole Ritchie has to pay $500,000 to some pathetic, overdressed lawyer to get her sentence reduced to three weeks of home confinement, than our kids should pay no less than $5000 to the guy who hangs out at the local court house and claims he has a law degree, or the guy who handled your mortgage settlement, or your friend who says the Internet is all that you need.
12:40 a.m.: arrest, 23-year-old Plymouth man arrested
on warrant for charges of unlicensed bath house,
keeping a disorderly house and sexual conduct for a fee
Even if you have gotten your act together, and don’t qualify for our show, what about your brother: didn’t I see his name in the Police Log last week? Or how about your wife: she may have fooled the local cops, but she didn’t fool you when you found that six pack in her bowling bag.
Isn’t it about time that the local dumb-ass, hot head, or Hezbollah member got the same attention as their counterpart in Southern Kalifornia?
I think so.
And I am sure that America thinks so, too.
The real crime is wasting so much time on those rich kids.
Sign up now for Hollyweird in the Home Town, or just give your real name the next time they pull you over.
arrested on warrant for charges including
assault with a dangerous weapon.
The film folks have left town, and just in time. We wouldn’t want any professionals horning in on our new, home-town reality series.
This is a casting call for Hollyweird in the Home Town.
Here’s the premise: despite the country’s obsession with the hi-jinks of the honeys of the Hollywood Hills, ‘folks round here’ are just as messed up.
We may be pulled over by the police while driving an old Escort Wagon, or a rusted-out Ford F150 though Manomet, instead of a Porsche or a Lotus through Malibu - but we’re just as high, just as arrogant, just as likely to get off with a slap on the wrist as our role models out there in La-La-Land.
12:10 p.m.: arrest, 21-year-old Plymouth man
arrested on warrant for charge of assault and battery
with a dangerous weapon, Manomet Point Road
The premise of our show is that this is La-La-Land too.
So we are looking for act-a-likes. We don’t care if you look like Lindsey or Nicole, and we certainly don’t expect you to have their cash. But if you have that same, perpetual ‘I could have had a V-8’ expression on your face, have “Rip Tides RIP” tattooed just above the crack of your ass, think your poop smells like pop-tarts, and have been chosen to be a spokes model for Breathalyzer, we want you!
We can’t pay much but, if selected, you will receive your own faux-police dossier with full color mug shots.
We can’t guarantee you the cover of Weekly World News, but you are sure to have your face plastered all across the local papers, and be featured prominently in the local police log.
1:15 p.m.: arrest, 19-year-old Plymouth man
charged with simple possession of Class D substance
The structure of our reality program won’t be anything out of the ordinary: just another pointless competition meant to bring out the worst from a dozen or so local yahoos – but with a grand prize of a 30 day stay at one of the country’s leading rehab centers.
Each week contestants chosen from the local police log will be given $10 and left off at a pre-selected bar or local party with no ID, no credit cards, and the goal of becoming legally intoxicated, borrowing a friends car, and driving themselves to the police station to ask for directions to the nearest McDonalds – and all within four hours.
In the end five finalists will be arrested and charged with disorderly conduct, DUI, possession of a Class D Substance, and assigned a local lawyer .
The finalist who receives the lightest sentence will be declared the winner.
8:01 p.m.: arrest, 39-year-old Plymouth woman charged with
simple possession of Class B substance, simple possession of
Class D substance and possession of Class B substance with
intent to distribute
Don’t sneeze at the prize: the winner may not be cured of their behaviors at the rehab center, but their room will have a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean, and the food there is to die for.
More importantly though, this reality series will awaken Americans to the fact that no one area of the country has a monopoly on spoiled, irresponsible young adults, whacked out judges, or absentee parents.
I firmly believe that if we are going to lock up young actresses for reckless behavior, we need to lock up young convenience store employees too.
If we are going to put the mug shots of drunken actors on the nightly news, then we should be putting the mug shots of our own friends and family on public access television.
And I believe there should be financial parity as well. If Nicole Ritchie has to pay $500,000 to some pathetic, overdressed lawyer to get her sentence reduced to three weeks of home confinement, than our kids should pay no less than $5000 to the guy who hangs out at the local court house and claims he has a law degree, or the guy who handled your mortgage settlement, or your friend who says the Internet is all that you need.
12:40 a.m.: arrest, 23-year-old Plymouth man arrested
on warrant for charges of unlicensed bath house,
keeping a disorderly house and sexual conduct for a fee
Even if you have gotten your act together, and don’t qualify for our show, what about your brother: didn’t I see his name in the Police Log last week? Or how about your wife: she may have fooled the local cops, but she didn’t fool you when you found that six pack in her bowling bag.
Isn’t it about time that the local dumb-ass, hot head, or Hezbollah member got the same attention as their counterpart in Southern Kalifornia?
I think so.
And I am sure that America thinks so, too.
The real crime is wasting so much time on those rich kids.
Sign up now for Hollyweird in the Home Town, or just give your real name the next time they pull you over.
In Defense of Darkness
The darkness is not as.. well, dark, as it used to be.
There was always something special about being up late on a hot summer’s evening, when everyone else was asleep, and with the windows wide open: sitting there literally bathing in the cool, black night.
There was a special quiet at that end of the day, a quiet almost as appealing as the stillness of the early morning – a respite from the din of a summer’s day that was almost as rejuvenating as the restful sleep that could then follow.
In the summer I often cannot sleep, or at least sleep well, if I have not prefaced my rest with at least an hour’s swim in that deep, black pool.
But lately that darkness, like a shallow pond after a long stretch of unusually hot days, has become rather tepid.
The darkness is punctuated now, pierced by dozens of tiny eyes. Red and green and blue and yellow points of light appear in our home, at night: some blinking, some cascading, others seeming to stare obliviously across the room.
Tiny lights that say “My power is on..”
Orange spots that boast, “I’m ready!”.
Computer lights that seem to brag, “You may think I’m turned off, but don’t be surprised if I am up to something...”
Wireless routers twiddling their tiny green thumbs.
Phones charging.
Printers standing by.
Digital clocks digitally snoring.
Refrigerators making ice.
We take these lights for granted, in the light of day. The machines which they adorn seem sterile and subservient, when the sun is up. But in the evening they suddenly seem to conspire. When they think they are alone, they begin communicating with one another.
And if you happen to be up late, too, they shatter the once solid darkness with their tiny beacons - like gravel from a semi-truck bouncing off your windshield.
These gadgets and gizmos are the ultimate insomniacs, and they seem to like nothing better than to have you up late with them, to share their neurotic, late night thoughts.
So much for a dip in the black water: so much for a respite from the frantic day.
Then again, you know me: I believe problems only exist so that I can propose bizarre solutions for them: and, of course, I have such a solution.
Despite these noisy chinks of light, clattering against my peripheral vision, I still find the night stimulating, and right now as I write this – in the wee hours of morning, I am imagining a few small changes that could make all the difference.
Do you remember the late-night approach of the aliens to the Midwestern home in the film, “Close Encounters”? The home depicted was – courtesy of Steven Spielberg, dramatically dappled with starlight and – as the aliens drew near, it seemed as if the light of those innumerable specks of light had seeped into every toy in the house. Toy police cars and fire engines and space ships suddenly began to whir and whiz and wheel about the house – making all sorts of Christmas morning music, waking the wide-eyed child who lived there, luring him to the window, pulling him toward those same specks of light..
That’s what I would do to all of these gadgets found around our homes today: transform them into toys.
Instead of a few tiny LED’s – as they call them, I’d make it a requirement that every household gadget emit a variety of pleasing beams of light. I’d make it mandatory that every so-called high tech piece of equipment whir and whiz and – whatever else they are supposed to do, have the ability to shower the floor with harmless sparks.
Instead of giving over my home to them, I’d keep them all in a mysterious room in the attic, or put them away in a giant trunk when I was finished playing with them. Toys are meant to awaken the imagination, not replace it.
I guess the problem is not really there lights – most of which are hardly bigger than a cricket’s eye, but rather the prominence we have given the gadgets behind them – in our homes and in our lives.
When it comes down to it, no laptop computer or flat screen television can compare with a shooting star, or the sound of the breeze in the trees, or the way simple darkness can soothe the brain after a long, bright day. And yet we act as if they do. Instead of letting the darkness come to us, we curl up in an office chair and stare at harshly lit screens for hour after hour.
No wonder they stare back at us.
No wonder they conspire.
Maybe they are waiting for the moment when they can make their own escape: turn off their lights and finally grab a little of that precious darkness for themselves?
It is precious, too, this darkness.
The night is not as dark as it used to be.
There was always something special about being up late on a hot summer’s evening, when everyone else was asleep, and with the windows wide open: sitting there literally bathing in the cool, black night.
There was a special quiet at that end of the day, a quiet almost as appealing as the stillness of the early morning – a respite from the din of a summer’s day that was almost as rejuvenating as the restful sleep that could then follow.
In the summer I often cannot sleep, or at least sleep well, if I have not prefaced my rest with at least an hour’s swim in that deep, black pool.
But lately that darkness, like a shallow pond after a long stretch of unusually hot days, has become rather tepid.
The darkness is punctuated now, pierced by dozens of tiny eyes. Red and green and blue and yellow points of light appear in our home, at night: some blinking, some cascading, others seeming to stare obliviously across the room.
Tiny lights that say “My power is on..”
Orange spots that boast, “I’m ready!”.
Computer lights that seem to brag, “You may think I’m turned off, but don’t be surprised if I am up to something...”
Wireless routers twiddling their tiny green thumbs.
Phones charging.
Printers standing by.
Digital clocks digitally snoring.
Refrigerators making ice.
We take these lights for granted, in the light of day. The machines which they adorn seem sterile and subservient, when the sun is up. But in the evening they suddenly seem to conspire. When they think they are alone, they begin communicating with one another.
And if you happen to be up late, too, they shatter the once solid darkness with their tiny beacons - like gravel from a semi-truck bouncing off your windshield.
These gadgets and gizmos are the ultimate insomniacs, and they seem to like nothing better than to have you up late with them, to share their neurotic, late night thoughts.
So much for a dip in the black water: so much for a respite from the frantic day.
Then again, you know me: I believe problems only exist so that I can propose bizarre solutions for them: and, of course, I have such a solution.
Despite these noisy chinks of light, clattering against my peripheral vision, I still find the night stimulating, and right now as I write this – in the wee hours of morning, I am imagining a few small changes that could make all the difference.
Do you remember the late-night approach of the aliens to the Midwestern home in the film, “Close Encounters”? The home depicted was – courtesy of Steven Spielberg, dramatically dappled with starlight and – as the aliens drew near, it seemed as if the light of those innumerable specks of light had seeped into every toy in the house. Toy police cars and fire engines and space ships suddenly began to whir and whiz and wheel about the house – making all sorts of Christmas morning music, waking the wide-eyed child who lived there, luring him to the window, pulling him toward those same specks of light..
That’s what I would do to all of these gadgets found around our homes today: transform them into toys.
Instead of a few tiny LED’s – as they call them, I’d make it a requirement that every household gadget emit a variety of pleasing beams of light. I’d make it mandatory that every so-called high tech piece of equipment whir and whiz and – whatever else they are supposed to do, have the ability to shower the floor with harmless sparks.
Instead of giving over my home to them, I’d keep them all in a mysterious room in the attic, or put them away in a giant trunk when I was finished playing with them. Toys are meant to awaken the imagination, not replace it.
I guess the problem is not really there lights – most of which are hardly bigger than a cricket’s eye, but rather the prominence we have given the gadgets behind them – in our homes and in our lives.
When it comes down to it, no laptop computer or flat screen television can compare with a shooting star, or the sound of the breeze in the trees, or the way simple darkness can soothe the brain after a long, bright day. And yet we act as if they do. Instead of letting the darkness come to us, we curl up in an office chair and stare at harshly lit screens for hour after hour.
No wonder they stare back at us.
No wonder they conspire.
Maybe they are waiting for the moment when they can make their own escape: turn off their lights and finally grab a little of that precious darkness for themselves?
It is precious, too, this darkness.
The night is not as dark as it used to be.
Natalie and Me
Wanted: Priest. Must have a natural air of superiority, a glint in the eye that suggests certain arcane knowledge, be fluent in an impractical foreign language, soft-spoken, imperturbable, mysterious and yet, readily available to quell riots, guide small children, and oversee community barbeques. Religious affiliation immaterial. Gender not an issue. Sexual orientation irrelevant. Must have reliable transportation. Weed free lawn a plus. Applications being taken at local Cable Access Television studios.
Any takers?
Plenty of wannabees.
Very few qualified applicants.
Priests are like white Bengal Tigers: rarely seen, except in captivity; on the endangered species list, and going fast.
What we have today – in large part, is a priestless society. What we have, instead of priests, are tribes, where behavior is dictated by what the group decides, not by the example or teachings – or fear of, any one individual.
It wasn’t that long ago, though, that there were priests on every corner.
When I was a boy fathers were the priests of the family: they didn’t have to explain themselves, what they said was law. Of course what many of them said was, to put it nicely, rubbish – but fathers were given a great deal of slack.
Little League coaches. When I played for Lyons Nursery way back in the sixties (the 1960’s, wise guy) we called our coach, Mister, Sir, or a combination thereof, and though he hardly said a word to any of us, we were under his power. I still repeat the few instructions he gave me, as if they had been inscribed into a stone tablet by the finger of God: ‘when the ball is hit, your first step is always backward; your hands are faster than the ball – stay back and wait on it, then explode; I don’t care how hot it is, keep that shirt tucked in!’
In my youth it seems we had more than our fair share of priests. Back then, believe it or not, even priests were actually considered.. well, priests. TV announcers were priests too. Gas station attendants. Teachers. Policemen. Even the milkman – in his white suit, gave you the impression that he knew something you did not (what exactly Half and Half is).
Musicians were priests too, in a way, back then. Can anyone imagine Fifty Cent or Jon Bon Jovi stopping a riot today? But in 1968 that’s exactly what James Brown did in Boston.
Forty years later even the church doesn’t have enough priests to go around, and the riots are outside the church itself.
Maybe it was just plain ignorance, on our part. Priests have always depended on the ignorance of others, for their positions of power. In the early days of Christianity, priests – or monks, had secret knowledge no one else possessed, and they weren’t about to share it either.
The 21st Century might be called the Age of the Revealed Secret. Want to build a nuclear bomb, cook like Julia Child, or chart a hurricane’s path – Google it.
The 21st Century might also be called The Age of the Defrocked Priest. Today, what our society outwardly raises up, it simultaneously brings down. We pay millions to create celebrities, it seems, solely for the privilege of ridiculing them. We flock to massive church stadiums, hoping to be told that we are god-like. We elect individuals to positions of great power, than quickly dismiss them for their revealed humanity.
In the absence of true priests though, we are confronted by a kind of cosmological anarchy. In the absence of a tribal leader, primitive man could look to the sun and the moon as figures of authority, but today – one by one, even the heavenly bodies are being devalued. Pluto – God of Underworld, is not even a planet anymore. The moon – long thought to be the main source of madness or inspiration, is now our solar system’s local landfill.
I guess what I really mean to say, is that I am going to miss Natalie.
We all knew it was coming but it was still a shock when she made the announcement last week. Natalie Jacobsen was – and in some way, still is an authentic priestess.
Sure, she had lost some of her power, in recent years: she had divorced from Chet; been given a lesser role at Channel Five; gotten older, grayer, and was not sufficiently glib for modern television journalism’s 15 second stories - but she still possessed that priest-like combination of wisdom, empathy, and authority.
Her departure has a tinge of irony, in that what this new world of bloggers and cable access action heroes aspire to - IMO, is membership in the same secret society that Natalie recently belonged to. Today, instead of a few hundred high priests, we have a few million priests-in-training, and no guarantee of graduation day.
The plain truth is that we don’t have enough time to listen to a million sermons, or enough shelf space for a million bobble-headed heroes. We need our Natalies, if just to have time left over to mow the lawn and shoo the turkeys away.
And we need our Natalies if just to keep the sound of opinions down to a roar. In the absence of a priestly class, the noise of the masses is deafening, as each tries to shout over the other.
As for me, though I am going to miss Natalie, I don’t feel it’s the end of the world. My life goes on. I still have my Latin lessons, my Peace studies, and my regular neighborhood barbeque to keep me busy. I also work as an umpire for the local Little League, and am taking the Dr. Phil Relationship Mediation Correspondence Course. Oh, and I have this pulpit, that is, this column too: every week I have the opportunity to share my concerns with you in a quiet, dignified manner. We may not always agree, but I think we respect one another.
Now if I can only find myself a cool uniform.
Any takers?
Plenty of wannabees.
Very few qualified applicants.
Priests are like white Bengal Tigers: rarely seen, except in captivity; on the endangered species list, and going fast.
What we have today – in large part, is a priestless society. What we have, instead of priests, are tribes, where behavior is dictated by what the group decides, not by the example or teachings – or fear of, any one individual.
It wasn’t that long ago, though, that there were priests on every corner.
When I was a boy fathers were the priests of the family: they didn’t have to explain themselves, what they said was law. Of course what many of them said was, to put it nicely, rubbish – but fathers were given a great deal of slack.
Little League coaches. When I played for Lyons Nursery way back in the sixties (the 1960’s, wise guy) we called our coach, Mister, Sir, or a combination thereof, and though he hardly said a word to any of us, we were under his power. I still repeat the few instructions he gave me, as if they had been inscribed into a stone tablet by the finger of God: ‘when the ball is hit, your first step is always backward; your hands are faster than the ball – stay back and wait on it, then explode; I don’t care how hot it is, keep that shirt tucked in!’
In my youth it seems we had more than our fair share of priests. Back then, believe it or not, even priests were actually considered.. well, priests. TV announcers were priests too. Gas station attendants. Teachers. Policemen. Even the milkman – in his white suit, gave you the impression that he knew something you did not (what exactly Half and Half is).
Musicians were priests too, in a way, back then. Can anyone imagine Fifty Cent or Jon Bon Jovi stopping a riot today? But in 1968 that’s exactly what James Brown did in Boston.
Forty years later even the church doesn’t have enough priests to go around, and the riots are outside the church itself.
Maybe it was just plain ignorance, on our part. Priests have always depended on the ignorance of others, for their positions of power. In the early days of Christianity, priests – or monks, had secret knowledge no one else possessed, and they weren’t about to share it either.
The 21st Century might be called the Age of the Revealed Secret. Want to build a nuclear bomb, cook like Julia Child, or chart a hurricane’s path – Google it.
The 21st Century might also be called The Age of the Defrocked Priest. Today, what our society outwardly raises up, it simultaneously brings down. We pay millions to create celebrities, it seems, solely for the privilege of ridiculing them. We flock to massive church stadiums, hoping to be told that we are god-like. We elect individuals to positions of great power, than quickly dismiss them for their revealed humanity.
In the absence of true priests though, we are confronted by a kind of cosmological anarchy. In the absence of a tribal leader, primitive man could look to the sun and the moon as figures of authority, but today – one by one, even the heavenly bodies are being devalued. Pluto – God of Underworld, is not even a planet anymore. The moon – long thought to be the main source of madness or inspiration, is now our solar system’s local landfill.
I guess what I really mean to say, is that I am going to miss Natalie.
We all knew it was coming but it was still a shock when she made the announcement last week. Natalie Jacobsen was – and in some way, still is an authentic priestess.
Sure, she had lost some of her power, in recent years: she had divorced from Chet; been given a lesser role at Channel Five; gotten older, grayer, and was not sufficiently glib for modern television journalism’s 15 second stories - but she still possessed that priest-like combination of wisdom, empathy, and authority.
Her departure has a tinge of irony, in that what this new world of bloggers and cable access action heroes aspire to - IMO, is membership in the same secret society that Natalie recently belonged to. Today, instead of a few hundred high priests, we have a few million priests-in-training, and no guarantee of graduation day.
The plain truth is that we don’t have enough time to listen to a million sermons, or enough shelf space for a million bobble-headed heroes. We need our Natalies, if just to have time left over to mow the lawn and shoo the turkeys away.
And we need our Natalies if just to keep the sound of opinions down to a roar. In the absence of a priestly class, the noise of the masses is deafening, as each tries to shout over the other.
As for me, though I am going to miss Natalie, I don’t feel it’s the end of the world. My life goes on. I still have my Latin lessons, my Peace studies, and my regular neighborhood barbeque to keep me busy. I also work as an umpire for the local Little League, and am taking the Dr. Phil Relationship Mediation Correspondence Course. Oh, and I have this pulpit, that is, this column too: every week I have the opportunity to share my concerns with you in a quiet, dignified manner. We may not always agree, but I think we respect one another.
Now if I can only find myself a cool uniform.
Follow Your Nose
"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4
Surprise! I am not going to write about President Bush’s decision to spare his dear friend and colleague ‘Scooter’ Libby, from jail, by commuting his sentence.
Come on, admit it: you had me figured as one of those knee-jerk liberals, who can’t pass up an opportunity to ridicule our Commander-in-Chief.
But whatever my political leanings, first and foremost I am an opportunist. For me there is no difference between stories about Anna Nicole, Brittany Spears, or Double-yew Bush. I judge the potential news value of a story - first, by how embarrassing it was for the individual involved; secondly, by how embarrassed they look on camera, and finally, by where Fox News places the story in their nightly broadcast.
In other words, I follow my nose.
On the night that the news of Libby’s commutation (does that make him a commu-tist?) first broke, the local Fox News channel was more interested in promoting their story on the Star Spangled Sweepstakes lottery ticket scandal, than the President’s historic commutation. And so I seriously considered writing my next column about the lottery. At least that story would have had a ‘local angle’. Plymouthians – and Americans in general I think, care more about their lotteries than their politics. And where was the drama in the Scooter story? Everyone knew he would never do any jail time. No one seriously expected the President to go against the wishes of his daddy dearest, Dick Cheney. I even give the President points for consistency: after all, he appointed Paul Wolfowitz - one of the architects of our failed Iraq Strategy, to the Presidency of the World Bank, and selected both General Tommy Franks – who bungled the war on the ground, and CIA head George Tent - who bungled the WMD investigation, to receive the nation’s highest honor - the Medal of Freedom. The least he could do for Libby was give him a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.
When you have lived for seven years with a President who can’t think of any mistakes he might have made – except perhaps for errors of pronunciation, and with an administration that places politics above every other consideration, word that they have closed ranks again to protect one of their own – is not news at all!
Luckily for me though, there was a bigger stink that same day – news that was perfect material for one of my snide, sarcastic, opinionated and none-too-original columns. At almost the same time the President was holding his nose and announcing that he had commuted Scooter’s sentence, in a University of North Carolina greenhouse the Voodoo Lily – otherwise known as the Corpse Flower, began to bloom.
Corpse Flowers only bloom once in every six or seven years, and when they do they emit an odor that has been described as similar to the smell of spoiled meat, bad eggs, and rotting vegetables – all rolled into one. People come from all over just to see – and smell, these huge, foul-smelling flowers. They’re the perfect feature story too, combining embarrassing smells, horticultural education, and freakish, sci-fi sensibilities all in one.
Of course when the University of North Carolina’s Voodoo Lily bloomed at almost the exact same time that President Bush commuted Libby’s sentence, radio show hosts across the country were quick to suggest that it was a liberal conspiracy – that perhaps the lily’s nauseous flowering was a not-too-subtle commentary on the news of the day. But according to horticulturists, the mechanisms that trigger the rare flower to unfold from its tree-sized stem are largely unknown to science, and impossible to predict.
The UNC’s horticulture department – which has a half-dozen Voodoo Lilies, had never had one bloom before.
Before the UNC Voodoo Lily stank up the place, the last one to flower in the United States was in New Orleans, in September of 2005 – ironically, just days after President Bush visited the city following Hurricane Katrina. The exact date of that flowering is unclear, because the location of the New Orleans Voodoo Lilly was in a greenhouse operated by Tulane University, which had been abandoned during the storm.
“We smelled something awful”, a city official told the local press, “but we thought it was due to the storm surge, not the Corpse Flower, or the President’s visit.”
In May of 2003 an indoor exhibit of rare tropical plants and animals – located within the San Diego Zoo, experienced their own Corpse Flower blooming – and had to be shut down for several days until the revolting smell dissipated. Coincidentally, President Bush was in the city that same week, announcing the end of ‘major combat operations in Iraq’ aboard an aircraft carrier in the harbor.
And finally, the only other known blooming of a Voodoo Lily in the United States this century, occurred at the National Arboretum in Washington D.C., in January of 2001. Two days later, as fate would have it, President Bush was inaugurated.
So, what’s the real story here? It can be confusing.
Is there really such a thing as a ‘Corpse Flower’, and does it really smell that bad? Did President Bush have any other motive in commuting Scooter’s sentence? Does the President bloom only once every four years, and does that explain his re-election? Did Fox News deliberately downplay the Libby commutation story, or do they really believe there is a liberal conspiracy to deny the people their lottery rights?
I guess you’ll just have to trust your own senses, this time.
William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4
Surprise! I am not going to write about President Bush’s decision to spare his dear friend and colleague ‘Scooter’ Libby, from jail, by commuting his sentence.
Come on, admit it: you had me figured as one of those knee-jerk liberals, who can’t pass up an opportunity to ridicule our Commander-in-Chief.
But whatever my political leanings, first and foremost I am an opportunist. For me there is no difference between stories about Anna Nicole, Brittany Spears, or Double-yew Bush. I judge the potential news value of a story - first, by how embarrassing it was for the individual involved; secondly, by how embarrassed they look on camera, and finally, by where Fox News places the story in their nightly broadcast.
In other words, I follow my nose.
On the night that the news of Libby’s commutation (does that make him a commu-tist?) first broke, the local Fox News channel was more interested in promoting their story on the Star Spangled Sweepstakes lottery ticket scandal, than the President’s historic commutation. And so I seriously considered writing my next column about the lottery. At least that story would have had a ‘local angle’. Plymouthians – and Americans in general I think, care more about their lotteries than their politics. And where was the drama in the Scooter story? Everyone knew he would never do any jail time. No one seriously expected the President to go against the wishes of his daddy dearest, Dick Cheney. I even give the President points for consistency: after all, he appointed Paul Wolfowitz - one of the architects of our failed Iraq Strategy, to the Presidency of the World Bank, and selected both General Tommy Franks – who bungled the war on the ground, and CIA head George Tent - who bungled the WMD investigation, to receive the nation’s highest honor - the Medal of Freedom. The least he could do for Libby was give him a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.
When you have lived for seven years with a President who can’t think of any mistakes he might have made – except perhaps for errors of pronunciation, and with an administration that places politics above every other consideration, word that they have closed ranks again to protect one of their own – is not news at all!
Luckily for me though, there was a bigger stink that same day – news that was perfect material for one of my snide, sarcastic, opinionated and none-too-original columns. At almost the same time the President was holding his nose and announcing that he had commuted Scooter’s sentence, in a University of North Carolina greenhouse the Voodoo Lily – otherwise known as the Corpse Flower, began to bloom.
Corpse Flowers only bloom once in every six or seven years, and when they do they emit an odor that has been described as similar to the smell of spoiled meat, bad eggs, and rotting vegetables – all rolled into one. People come from all over just to see – and smell, these huge, foul-smelling flowers. They’re the perfect feature story too, combining embarrassing smells, horticultural education, and freakish, sci-fi sensibilities all in one.
Of course when the University of North Carolina’s Voodoo Lily bloomed at almost the exact same time that President Bush commuted Libby’s sentence, radio show hosts across the country were quick to suggest that it was a liberal conspiracy – that perhaps the lily’s nauseous flowering was a not-too-subtle commentary on the news of the day. But according to horticulturists, the mechanisms that trigger the rare flower to unfold from its tree-sized stem are largely unknown to science, and impossible to predict.
The UNC’s horticulture department – which has a half-dozen Voodoo Lilies, had never had one bloom before.
Before the UNC Voodoo Lily stank up the place, the last one to flower in the United States was in New Orleans, in September of 2005 – ironically, just days after President Bush visited the city following Hurricane Katrina. The exact date of that flowering is unclear, because the location of the New Orleans Voodoo Lilly was in a greenhouse operated by Tulane University, which had been abandoned during the storm.
“We smelled something awful”, a city official told the local press, “but we thought it was due to the storm surge, not the Corpse Flower, or the President’s visit.”
In May of 2003 an indoor exhibit of rare tropical plants and animals – located within the San Diego Zoo, experienced their own Corpse Flower blooming – and had to be shut down for several days until the revolting smell dissipated. Coincidentally, President Bush was in the city that same week, announcing the end of ‘major combat operations in Iraq’ aboard an aircraft carrier in the harbor.
And finally, the only other known blooming of a Voodoo Lily in the United States this century, occurred at the National Arboretum in Washington D.C., in January of 2001. Two days later, as fate would have it, President Bush was inaugurated.
So, what’s the real story here? It can be confusing.
Is there really such a thing as a ‘Corpse Flower’, and does it really smell that bad? Did President Bush have any other motive in commuting Scooter’s sentence? Does the President bloom only once every four years, and does that explain his re-election? Did Fox News deliberately downplay the Libby commutation story, or do they really believe there is a liberal conspiracy to deny the people their lottery rights?
I guess you’ll just have to trust your own senses, this time.
Keeping it Real!
I rant, therefore I am.
Or, to put it another way, I’m keeping it real – by railing against the forces of unreality.
Apologies to the poor clerks at Borders. I understand that you just work there.
I wasn’t there this past weekend to make a fuss: I was there buying a book – the subject of which is irrelevant. As I went from aisle to aisle though, I couldn’t help but listen to the music they were playing.
They were promoting a new CD that is both a tribute to John Lennon, and a fundraiser for the efforts to bring peace to Darfur.
Being a child of Lennon’s era, I recognized the songs immediately, and was appalled.
If anyone knew how to keep it real, it was John Lennon. Lennon, in a real sense, sacrificed his life in order to have a life: living the life of a family man in the midst of one of the world’s most populous, and dangerous cities. Lennon, in his own words, had gotten off the merry-go-round of fame: “I just had to let it go”, he sings on “Watching the Wheels”, a song recorded just days before he was murdered on the streets of New York by a deranged fan.
So Lennon is not here to defend himself as his life is put back on the merry-go-round: not here to defend himself as – over and over again, he is made one of the lesser ingredients in another guilt-free, low-cost, tee-shirt and wrist-band is all that we ask of you cause.
Sure the cause is good, just, worthy, but that does not mean that Lennon is represented well by this ‘tribute’. In fact I believe that Lennon’s music – standing on its own, is far more effective at moving people to action, than when it is reconstituted and sprinkled on the latest brand of breakfast cereal.
The final straw (one of a hundred annual final straws), for me, was the contribution to this CD from the collaboration of Christina Aguilera and the faux-goth band Bigelf: the two recorded a version of Lennon’s nearly psychotic, primal scream session, sung to his parents and simply entitled “Mother”.
There is no song in recorded history more ‘real’ or as raw as Lennon’s recording of “Mother”: it is a wrenching, riveting – and completely personal cry of an abandoned child and in my opinion, the Aguilera-Elf rendition has all the depth of a Hanna Montana pre-teen angst ballad.
All this was bubbling in my brain as I walked around Borders, and when the cashier offered me her obligatory check-out remarks, I just couldn’t let it go.
“They play a lot of bad music” was her instinctive, CYA response.
She didn’t care, one way or the other. And you don’t care, either – at least about my opinion of John Lennon’s music.
But it wasn’t really the music I was complaining about, it was the unreality I had been involuntarily subjected to: it was, it is, the layers of plastic that we are all forced to dig through in order to get to the object of our desire. It is the distance we are all forced to travel to uncover – often not what we are looking for, but whether what we are being sold is what we thought we were looking for.
I think that we all want, crave – indeed need, something real.
Whether it is the food that we eat, or the music that we listen to, or the affection that we crave from other people, we need the real thing.
Too often, instead, we are offered substitutes, imitations, associations, approximations.
And I guess what I want to say is that it is not only alright, it is necessary for our sanity, that every so often we simply spit out the crap we are sold, spit it out onto the floor, in front of everyone.
· Walk out of the bad movie. If both of your butt cheeks die before you can figure out who’s who, it ain’t worth it.
· Spit the food back on to your plate. If in the middle of a mouthful, you realize you don’t remember what you ordered, give your stomach a break.
· Scream at the gas pump. The worse thing about self-service gas stations is the lack of someone there to blame.
· Call your Congressman. Find their name, their number, and ask the lackey who answers their phone if you can scream at them in person.
· Return the CD you bought. Instead of not listening to it ever again, get your money back and give it to an organization that buys food for refugees.
· Burn your Walkathon Tee Shirts: unless you promise to make a new donation every time you wear them.
· Tell your doctor he’s an ass. If they can’t treat you with respect, let them at least remember your name.
· Stop putting up with mediocrity. (that’s a career)
· Stop eating mush. (hype has no flavor)
· Stop paying for hype. (mush is mush)
· Stop swallowing your pride. (unless you’re a mush manufacturer)
· Speak up. Spit it out. Spill the beans.
· Don’t accept the half-assed, the half-hearted or the half-cooked.
· Take a deep breath.
There now: doesn’t that feel better already?
Or, to put it another way, I’m keeping it real – by railing against the forces of unreality.
Apologies to the poor clerks at Borders. I understand that you just work there.
I wasn’t there this past weekend to make a fuss: I was there buying a book – the subject of which is irrelevant. As I went from aisle to aisle though, I couldn’t help but listen to the music they were playing.
They were promoting a new CD that is both a tribute to John Lennon, and a fundraiser for the efforts to bring peace to Darfur.
Being a child of Lennon’s era, I recognized the songs immediately, and was appalled.
If anyone knew how to keep it real, it was John Lennon. Lennon, in a real sense, sacrificed his life in order to have a life: living the life of a family man in the midst of one of the world’s most populous, and dangerous cities. Lennon, in his own words, had gotten off the merry-go-round of fame: “I just had to let it go”, he sings on “Watching the Wheels”, a song recorded just days before he was murdered on the streets of New York by a deranged fan.
So Lennon is not here to defend himself as his life is put back on the merry-go-round: not here to defend himself as – over and over again, he is made one of the lesser ingredients in another guilt-free, low-cost, tee-shirt and wrist-band is all that we ask of you cause.
Sure the cause is good, just, worthy, but that does not mean that Lennon is represented well by this ‘tribute’. In fact I believe that Lennon’s music – standing on its own, is far more effective at moving people to action, than when it is reconstituted and sprinkled on the latest brand of breakfast cereal.
The final straw (one of a hundred annual final straws), for me, was the contribution to this CD from the collaboration of Christina Aguilera and the faux-goth band Bigelf: the two recorded a version of Lennon’s nearly psychotic, primal scream session, sung to his parents and simply entitled “Mother”.
There is no song in recorded history more ‘real’ or as raw as Lennon’s recording of “Mother”: it is a wrenching, riveting – and completely personal cry of an abandoned child and in my opinion, the Aguilera-Elf rendition has all the depth of a Hanna Montana pre-teen angst ballad.
All this was bubbling in my brain as I walked around Borders, and when the cashier offered me her obligatory check-out remarks, I just couldn’t let it go.
“They play a lot of bad music” was her instinctive, CYA response.
She didn’t care, one way or the other. And you don’t care, either – at least about my opinion of John Lennon’s music.
But it wasn’t really the music I was complaining about, it was the unreality I had been involuntarily subjected to: it was, it is, the layers of plastic that we are all forced to dig through in order to get to the object of our desire. It is the distance we are all forced to travel to uncover – often not what we are looking for, but whether what we are being sold is what we thought we were looking for.
I think that we all want, crave – indeed need, something real.
Whether it is the food that we eat, or the music that we listen to, or the affection that we crave from other people, we need the real thing.
Too often, instead, we are offered substitutes, imitations, associations, approximations.
And I guess what I want to say is that it is not only alright, it is necessary for our sanity, that every so often we simply spit out the crap we are sold, spit it out onto the floor, in front of everyone.
· Walk out of the bad movie. If both of your butt cheeks die before you can figure out who’s who, it ain’t worth it.
· Spit the food back on to your plate. If in the middle of a mouthful, you realize you don’t remember what you ordered, give your stomach a break.
· Scream at the gas pump. The worse thing about self-service gas stations is the lack of someone there to blame.
· Call your Congressman. Find their name, their number, and ask the lackey who answers their phone if you can scream at them in person.
· Return the CD you bought. Instead of not listening to it ever again, get your money back and give it to an organization that buys food for refugees.
· Burn your Walkathon Tee Shirts: unless you promise to make a new donation every time you wear them.
· Tell your doctor he’s an ass. If they can’t treat you with respect, let them at least remember your name.
· Stop putting up with mediocrity. (that’s a career)
· Stop eating mush. (hype has no flavor)
· Stop paying for hype. (mush is mush)
· Stop swallowing your pride. (unless you’re a mush manufacturer)
· Speak up. Spit it out. Spill the beans.
· Don’t accept the half-assed, the half-hearted or the half-cooked.
· Take a deep breath.
There now: doesn’t that feel better already?
Givin in to the 'bim'
The Chinese have their ‘chi’, the Japanese their ‘Zen’. But we westerners have our own unseen power, controlling our lives, dominating the airwaves.
I’m giving in to the ‘bim’.
One of my favorite sayings – stolen from the sixties comedy group Firesign Theatre, is “well, it’s a little like bees living in your head but, there they are.”
It is a little like having bees living in your head though, isn’t it? But instead of bees, it’s bimbos. There are swarms of bimbos buzzing ‘round our heads, bimbos buzzing on every channel, everywhere you click.
For some reason I think I would feel better if their names all began with B: Brittany, Baris, Banana Nicole.
Anyway, instead of fighting against their power, I’m abandoning my worn out principles and accepting the inevitable. Instead of arguing for a volunteer ban on bimbos in the news, I’m embracing Banana Nicole and her band of brainless, bra-less, beauties. Instead of asking for anti-bimbo legislation, I now believe that we should all do everything we can to bring all these Bambis into the mainstream.
Let’s stop the fruitless arguments as to their importance: clearly, they are the most important cultural phenomenon of this century.
Let’s stop criticizing their B-havior: obviously, our uncontrollable obsession with everything they do and say reveals our deep-seated envy of everything about them.
So, where do we start?
Despite the importance of Bimbos in our society, we still like to pretend that what they do and say is, well, ridiculous. So it is going to be difficult for people to publicly admit the truth: that our devotion to them is at least as silly as they are.
I propose that first, we change our calendar.
I’m not asking that we adopt a certain style of dress (we already conform to their fashion norms), or learn to speak a new language (the official language of the United States is already ‘bimboese’). No, I simply propose changing calendars, and then maybe the clocks, and go from there.
It has always seemed strange to me that we honor dead Romans and their gods – for the most part, by naming the months of the year after them. When was the last time you saw a video of Caesar Augustus getting out of his chariot, obviously intoxicated, on YouTube?
So, instead of Janus, I propose re-naming the first month of the year, Marilyn, for the goddess of Bimbos, Marilyn Monroe.
Yes, yes, I know, Marilyn was more than just a bimbo: but to her devotees she is the origin, the source, the fountainhead of all bimbolisciousness.
February I’d propose re-naming for Helen of Troy.
Okay, so I’m back pedaling a bit. Helen of Troy doesn’t have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, though their standards seemed to have slipped a bit of late. But the ideas on which our society are based, originated - in large part, with the Greeks. And there was no bigger bimbo in all of Greek literature than Helen.
And speaking of the month of Helen, I think we need to address this 28 day except on Leap Year thing. To make it easier on the Bimbawannabees out there, all the months of Bimbo should be 28 days long.
Is there anything more painful than watching the expression on a bimbos face when they try to figure things out: things like how many days in the month, what to tip the bouncer, and where they left their panties?
And with the 29 days left over every year, we can establish an entire invisible month during which Bimbos – and those with the necessary resources, can go into rehab, no questions asked.
The only real problem I foresee is naming the remaining months. You can’t just use any bimbo: these have to be the very cream of the crop, not just the flavor of the month. Baris, I mean Paris, seems a natural – now: but when she gets out of jail – will we still care? Britanny once seemed a classic bimbo: but of late she seems a bit desperate to make the grade. And what about what Seinfeld liked to call “Mimbos” - male bimbos: what about a month, for example, named for Elvis? He was one of the first, and greatest, male bimbos – though he lived at a time when the press didn’t stalk people the way they do today. And what about our old pal Bill, Clinton that is: I don’t think the fact that he’s intelligent, rules him out. But then again, Bill’s gotten too damned serious of late. Then again, he is the only Presidential Bimbo in history - unless you count Kennedy, or Herbert Hoover, or Van Heflin.
Okay, instead of March, the third month will be named for Elvis, and April will now be called Bubba. And what the heck – Banana Nicole just couldn’t help herself, so let’s name May, Banana.
Madonna? No, everything that happened to Madonna was planned – by Madonna. That’s Brittany’s problem of late too, as I see it. Britanny should just let it happen. Angelina was on the right track – for a while, but as soon as she and Brad got together, she started saving the world, adopting children, and getting all serious.
Maybe I’m still missing the point too. Maybe I need to loosen up. Instead of establishing regular bimbo months, perhaps we should just declare the month for a particular bimbo, after the fact: kind of like player of the month. In that case, I guess we’ve got to go with Paris this month – no matter how her last days in jail go.
Yeah, that’s the ticket: the Bimbo of the Month will be chosen at the end of every month – depending on who gets the most press coverage in the previous month.
Can you handle it? Can you keep up with it? You certainly can’t escape it, so why don’t you just give in to the bim?
You can search CNN, and MSNBC, and even CSPAN for the news, but sooner or later you’re going to have to admit, this is the Age of the Bimbo.
I’m giving in to the ‘bim’.
One of my favorite sayings – stolen from the sixties comedy group Firesign Theatre, is “well, it’s a little like bees living in your head but, there they are.”
It is a little like having bees living in your head though, isn’t it? But instead of bees, it’s bimbos. There are swarms of bimbos buzzing ‘round our heads, bimbos buzzing on every channel, everywhere you click.
For some reason I think I would feel better if their names all began with B: Brittany, Baris, Banana Nicole.
Anyway, instead of fighting against their power, I’m abandoning my worn out principles and accepting the inevitable. Instead of arguing for a volunteer ban on bimbos in the news, I’m embracing Banana Nicole and her band of brainless, bra-less, beauties. Instead of asking for anti-bimbo legislation, I now believe that we should all do everything we can to bring all these Bambis into the mainstream.
Let’s stop the fruitless arguments as to their importance: clearly, they are the most important cultural phenomenon of this century.
Let’s stop criticizing their B-havior: obviously, our uncontrollable obsession with everything they do and say reveals our deep-seated envy of everything about them.
So, where do we start?
Despite the importance of Bimbos in our society, we still like to pretend that what they do and say is, well, ridiculous. So it is going to be difficult for people to publicly admit the truth: that our devotion to them is at least as silly as they are.
I propose that first, we change our calendar.
I’m not asking that we adopt a certain style of dress (we already conform to their fashion norms), or learn to speak a new language (the official language of the United States is already ‘bimboese’). No, I simply propose changing calendars, and then maybe the clocks, and go from there.
It has always seemed strange to me that we honor dead Romans and their gods – for the most part, by naming the months of the year after them. When was the last time you saw a video of Caesar Augustus getting out of his chariot, obviously intoxicated, on YouTube?
So, instead of Janus, I propose re-naming the first month of the year, Marilyn, for the goddess of Bimbos, Marilyn Monroe.
Yes, yes, I know, Marilyn was more than just a bimbo: but to her devotees she is the origin, the source, the fountainhead of all bimbolisciousness.
February I’d propose re-naming for Helen of Troy.
Okay, so I’m back pedaling a bit. Helen of Troy doesn’t have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, though their standards seemed to have slipped a bit of late. But the ideas on which our society are based, originated - in large part, with the Greeks. And there was no bigger bimbo in all of Greek literature than Helen.
And speaking of the month of Helen, I think we need to address this 28 day except on Leap Year thing. To make it easier on the Bimbawannabees out there, all the months of Bimbo should be 28 days long.
Is there anything more painful than watching the expression on a bimbos face when they try to figure things out: things like how many days in the month, what to tip the bouncer, and where they left their panties?
And with the 29 days left over every year, we can establish an entire invisible month during which Bimbos – and those with the necessary resources, can go into rehab, no questions asked.
The only real problem I foresee is naming the remaining months. You can’t just use any bimbo: these have to be the very cream of the crop, not just the flavor of the month. Baris, I mean Paris, seems a natural – now: but when she gets out of jail – will we still care? Britanny once seemed a classic bimbo: but of late she seems a bit desperate to make the grade. And what about what Seinfeld liked to call “Mimbos” - male bimbos: what about a month, for example, named for Elvis? He was one of the first, and greatest, male bimbos – though he lived at a time when the press didn’t stalk people the way they do today. And what about our old pal Bill, Clinton that is: I don’t think the fact that he’s intelligent, rules him out. But then again, Bill’s gotten too damned serious of late. Then again, he is the only Presidential Bimbo in history - unless you count Kennedy, or Herbert Hoover, or Van Heflin.
Okay, instead of March, the third month will be named for Elvis, and April will now be called Bubba. And what the heck – Banana Nicole just couldn’t help herself, so let’s name May, Banana.
Madonna? No, everything that happened to Madonna was planned – by Madonna. That’s Brittany’s problem of late too, as I see it. Britanny should just let it happen. Angelina was on the right track – for a while, but as soon as she and Brad got together, she started saving the world, adopting children, and getting all serious.
Maybe I’m still missing the point too. Maybe I need to loosen up. Instead of establishing regular bimbo months, perhaps we should just declare the month for a particular bimbo, after the fact: kind of like player of the month. In that case, I guess we’ve got to go with Paris this month – no matter how her last days in jail go.
Yeah, that’s the ticket: the Bimbo of the Month will be chosen at the end of every month – depending on who gets the most press coverage in the previous month.
Can you handle it? Can you keep up with it? You certainly can’t escape it, so why don’t you just give in to the bim?
You can search CNN, and MSNBC, and even CSPAN for the news, but sooner or later you’re going to have to admit, this is the Age of the Bimbo.
A Four Letter Word
As part of the ongoing celebrations commemorating my 100th No Mand’s Land column, I am going to list – in no particular order, 100 things I actually like about Plymouth and its inhabitants.
1. First, I like that my devoted readers (all three of them) are incredulous that there are 100 things I admit I like about Plymouth.
2. I also like that though I’ve lived here for nearly 25 years, I can still get lost in Myles Standish State Forest.
3. I like the old Court House too. It’s like something out of a Spenser for Hire novel: a grandiose exterior that belies a maze-like interior filled with narrow, dimly lit hallways full of suspicious characters, over-sized cops, and lawyers that look as if they are being asked to verify that the milk has gone sour.
4. Gellar’s aluminum ice cream cone. When they tear Gellars down to make way for the new combination Museum of Manomet Life and Dunkin Donuts, I’ve got dibs on the cone.
5. The nauseating color scheme at Town Hall: it’s guaranteed to ward off evil, keep board members awake, and agitate ‘certain others’.
6. Japanese ‘Professional’ Wrestling on Cable Access: where else can you watch reruns of men in tights, watching reruns of men in tights, watching reruns.
7. That in a one minute stroll down Court Street, I can have a taco, a curry, moo shi, sushi, sax lessons, a slice of cake, and a pint of Meade (and the stomach pumping people of Jordan Hospital are just a three-minute ambulance ride away!)
8. Enisketomp: when they demolish the McDonalds at Exit 5 to make room for a retention pond, I’ve got dibs on Enisketomp.
9. Bloody Pond. An English tourist named this pond, after getting lost in Myles Standish State Forest.
10. The Billington Sea.
11. The Billington Brothers. If I had a band, that’s what I’d call it (dibs!).
12. The New Brewster Gardens.
13. White Horse Beach in winter.
14. The abandoned train station at the abandoned Wal-Mart at The Latest Attempt to Make Something Out of Cordage Park Commerce Center
15. Bug Light.
16. Clark’s Island: actually, I’ve never been to Clark’s Island, but I’ve heard some great stories.
17. Mosquitoes as big as turkeys and not half as bright. (Oh, I am informed that those are actually swarms of turkeys)
18. Plimoth Plantation (Oh, I am informed that it is now called PineHills)
19. Caterpillar Season.
20. The Saturday Peace Vigil
21. The trolley driver who is always ‘gesturing’ at the participants in the Peace Vigil.
22. The Karen Buechs All-Star Review and Moot Court Team: check the court house schedule for their next live appearance.
23. Burial Hill.
24. Town Meeting.
25. Free coffee and home-made baked goods at the Church of the Pilgrimage on Thanksgiving morning.
26. That a blind-folded foreigner, parachuting randomly anywhere within the town limits, would take only 37 seconds to stumble into a drive-thru lane at a Dunkin Donuts (unless they are impaled on the Gellar’s Ice Cream Cone).
27. That there are almost as many golf carts as Hummers, registered in the town.
28. The “No Surfing” signs at the giant retention ponds on the New 44.
29. The contest to name the giant retention ponds along the New 44 (Rusty Pond? Rubber Pond? Wal-Mart Pond?)
30. The folks who want to stock the giant retention ponds on the New 44 with brown trout and wide-mouth bass.
31. Olde 44
32. The Reverend Professor Peter J. Gomes
33. City Lights, City Streets
34. The BBC on Middle Street
35. The Old Colony Club
36. Emerson Field on White Horse Beach Road
37. The dozen or so local guys who coach Little League, Youth Basketball, Youth Football, umpire, referee, play golf regularly, have fabulous lawns, nice kids, are somehow still married, and haven’t spontaneously burst into flames.
38. People who drive five MPG, ten-ton, tinted window, black SUVs that seat sixteen and have a bumper sticker that reads, “Piping Plover – Tastes Like Chicken”.
39. Anything cooked by Martha Stone.
40. The smoked eel at Asian Essence.
41. The Pad Thai at Star of Siam.
42. The Weber Grill in My Backyard.
Honestly, I have at least 58 more things that I like about Plymouth, but I’ve run out of space. I’ll save the rest for my 200th column, provided of course that the Bulletin offices have not been sold by then to make room for another Dunkin Donuts, or a retention pond, or a turkey meat processing plant.
1. First, I like that my devoted readers (all three of them) are incredulous that there are 100 things I admit I like about Plymouth.
2. I also like that though I’ve lived here for nearly 25 years, I can still get lost in Myles Standish State Forest.
3. I like the old Court House too. It’s like something out of a Spenser for Hire novel: a grandiose exterior that belies a maze-like interior filled with narrow, dimly lit hallways full of suspicious characters, over-sized cops, and lawyers that look as if they are being asked to verify that the milk has gone sour.
4. Gellar’s aluminum ice cream cone. When they tear Gellars down to make way for the new combination Museum of Manomet Life and Dunkin Donuts, I’ve got dibs on the cone.
5. The nauseating color scheme at Town Hall: it’s guaranteed to ward off evil, keep board members awake, and agitate ‘certain others’.
6. Japanese ‘Professional’ Wrestling on Cable Access: where else can you watch reruns of men in tights, watching reruns of men in tights, watching reruns.
7. That in a one minute stroll down Court Street, I can have a taco, a curry, moo shi, sushi, sax lessons, a slice of cake, and a pint of Meade (and the stomach pumping people of Jordan Hospital are just a three-minute ambulance ride away!)
8. Enisketomp: when they demolish the McDonalds at Exit 5 to make room for a retention pond, I’ve got dibs on Enisketomp.
9. Bloody Pond. An English tourist named this pond, after getting lost in Myles Standish State Forest.
10. The Billington Sea.
11. The Billington Brothers. If I had a band, that’s what I’d call it (dibs!).
12. The New Brewster Gardens.
13. White Horse Beach in winter.
14. The abandoned train station at the abandoned Wal-Mart at The Latest Attempt to Make Something Out of Cordage Park Commerce Center
15. Bug Light.
16. Clark’s Island: actually, I’ve never been to Clark’s Island, but I’ve heard some great stories.
17. Mosquitoes as big as turkeys and not half as bright. (Oh, I am informed that those are actually swarms of turkeys)
18. Plimoth Plantation (Oh, I am informed that it is now called PineHills)
19. Caterpillar Season.
20. The Saturday Peace Vigil
21. The trolley driver who is always ‘gesturing’ at the participants in the Peace Vigil.
22. The Karen Buechs All-Star Review and Moot Court Team: check the court house schedule for their next live appearance.
23. Burial Hill.
24. Town Meeting.
25. Free coffee and home-made baked goods at the Church of the Pilgrimage on Thanksgiving morning.
26. That a blind-folded foreigner, parachuting randomly anywhere within the town limits, would take only 37 seconds to stumble into a drive-thru lane at a Dunkin Donuts (unless they are impaled on the Gellar’s Ice Cream Cone).
27. That there are almost as many golf carts as Hummers, registered in the town.
28. The “No Surfing” signs at the giant retention ponds on the New 44.
29. The contest to name the giant retention ponds along the New 44 (Rusty Pond? Rubber Pond? Wal-Mart Pond?)
30. The folks who want to stock the giant retention ponds on the New 44 with brown trout and wide-mouth bass.
31. Olde 44
32. The Reverend Professor Peter J. Gomes
33. City Lights, City Streets
34. The BBC on Middle Street
35. The Old Colony Club
36. Emerson Field on White Horse Beach Road
37. The dozen or so local guys who coach Little League, Youth Basketball, Youth Football, umpire, referee, play golf regularly, have fabulous lawns, nice kids, are somehow still married, and haven’t spontaneously burst into flames.
38. People who drive five MPG, ten-ton, tinted window, black SUVs that seat sixteen and have a bumper sticker that reads, “Piping Plover – Tastes Like Chicken”.
39. Anything cooked by Martha Stone.
40. The smoked eel at Asian Essence.
41. The Pad Thai at Star of Siam.
42. The Weber Grill in My Backyard.
Honestly, I have at least 58 more things that I like about Plymouth, but I’ve run out of space. I’ll save the rest for my 200th column, provided of course that the Bulletin offices have not been sold by then to make room for another Dunkin Donuts, or a retention pond, or a turkey meat processing plant.
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