Many Happy Returns

I've noticed that people tend to freak out around the New Year. They make all these resolutions at once, ones they know they won't be able to keep longer than Valentine's Day, and then they get all down on themselves, and feel bad because they've gone back to smoking, or skipping the gym, or eating Nutella out of the jar, or giggling maliciously whenever they think of their boss's toddler, because it looks like a baby ManBearPig.

Look - it might be nice to stop some of those things. Maybe you'll live longer or sleep better or get better performance evaluations if you change. Or maybe not.

Maybe, instead of feeling shitty about yourself because you can't ever remember to water your plants or because your carbon footprint is ginormous, or because you'd rather watch Gossip Girl than The MacNeil Lehrer Hour, you could try to accept that a lot of your wackest characteristics, if repressed, will just pop up somewhere else. Maybe that explains Mitt Romney. I don't know. It just seems like we waste all this energy fighting who we are, when who we are might really not be so bad at all.

To help you on your journey, here is a short list of things that may change temporarily, but will always return to what they know they should be:

1. Toast, when left on the counter for long enough without being consumed, will once again become bread. If it is buttered, and then abandoned, it will simply become bread with butter.

2. A Raisinet, if left unattended and unprotected in the bottom of a purse, will eventually return to its original, natural state as a pure, unadorned raisin. (I don't know what happens to the chocoalte, and I would not suggest that you make either part into a snack, but you have to respect the perseverance of the raisin nonetheless.)

3. A show poodle, even after it has been mercilessly shaved and plucked and bow-tied for years, if left the fuck alone, will regrow its lovely curly coat and resume life as a regular dog.

4. A chameleon, with it's tail violently removed, will grow a new tail. Provided Bear Grylls doesn't eat him first.

There are, of course, exceptions. A jug of apple cider, if left unattended in the corner of a basement for the better part of a decade, may evolve into a fermented cocktail of sorts. (Although any pulpy fruit byproduct that can withstand thousands of days alone in some forgotten portion of a subterranean pantry was perhaps never meant to make it to the table as cider in the first place.)

What am I saying? Just this: Be the Raisinet, man.

If by the spring you've foregone the balanced macrobiotic meals and eight glasses of wheat germ infused water a day, and are back to your usual dinners of whiskey and jelly beans, don't be too hard on yourself. At the very least, it probably means you'll never end up strapping the family dog to the roof of your car.

Umbrella Ettiquette

I'm beginning to think that that people should be required to obtain a license before owning and/or operating an umbrella. Ridiculous, I know, but my mind is blown every day by some asshole irresponsibly wielding an umbrella. I think Bostonians are particularly negligent. In New Orleans, where freak rainstorms happen at least daily, people manage this shit without a problem, and pleasantly, to boot. It was there that I learned many of these rules.

1. You may only carry an umbrella when it is actually raining. If at any point it stops raining, you must put your umbrella away. If it is raining so lightly that you aren't sure it's even precipitating - put it away.

2. You may never carry an umbrella to protect you from the sun. Referring to it as a parasol does not help. It makes it worse.

3. Snow is not rain. Refer to rule number 1. (An exception is sleet. If it is sleeting, or something else is falling from the sky that physically pains you and makes walking difficult, you may use appropriate protection.)

4. I f you pass someone on a narrow street, and you are both carrying umbrellas, one of you must raise and one of you must lower your umbrellas so that you don't whack into each other. Sensically, the tall person should extend their arm skyward, and the shorter individual should bend their elbow. There is no need for a battle of wills. Be decent.

5. THIS RULE IS IS SO UNDERRATED, KEEP YOUR UMBRELLAS AND YOUR BICYCLES COMPLETELY SEPARATED. Sorry, couldn't help myself. But really - every time I see someone riding a bike while holding an umbrella I feel like my head is going to explode.

6. The only time an umbrella may be opened inside is for drying purposes.

7. When entering or exiting a building, you may not block the doorway while struggling to open or close your umbrella. Besides being incredibly rude, it also constitutes a fire hazard.

7a. When exiting a building you may not, under any circumstances, stick your umbrella out the door and blindly open it onto the sidewalk INTO THE FACES AND BODIES OF INNOCENT PEDESTRIANS. A violation of this rule is, in some cases, punishable by death.

8. If your umbrella blows inside out, it's ok to stop and laugh for a second as you fix it, because that shit is funny. If it happens more than twice in a five-minute period, it is obviously not umbrella-friendly weather, and you need to let the dream of remaining dry die.Move on.

9. If you hit someone with your umbrella, you have to apologize. Seriously, everyone knows it was an accident. But you still snagged my sweater and got my shoulder all wet. Just apologize.

If you aren't sure if your conduct constitutes an infraction, just ask. Although if you have to ask, the answer is probably 'yes'.

Just as with automobiles, if you violate one of these rules, you should be issued a ticket and ordered to pay a fee. If you commit three or more infractions, your umbrella should be taken away. After 90 days, you may have your umbrella back. If after your umbrella is returned to you, you continue to flaunt these rules, and you are caught, your umbrella should be permanently taken from you, without the possibility of return. From that point until your death, you shall be denied to the privilege (yes, privilege) to remain dry in inclement weather. Should a storm become truly severe, you may be permitted, in special instances, to wear one of those umbrella-hats that help identify assholes on the beach. That privilege shall be awarded to you by a tribunal, made up of small children who have been responsible umbrella-license holders for at least four years. There is no appeal process.

Another Disappointment, Brought to You by The Holiday Season

Hey, you know what's fucking disgusting?

Brigham's new seasonal flavor: Frozen Pudding. Did you get excited and sort of confused reading that? Yeah. Let me save you $4.50 and a really heartbreaking let-down in the field of frozen confections. Read on.

Here's what happened: This weekend, I was visiting my neighborhood White Hen Market, picking up supplies for the impending Nor'easter. (I ended up with Camel Lights, toilet paper, orange juice, lottery tickets, toothpaste, dog food, dish soap and trash bags. Don't you hate when you run out of normal-person stuff all at once? It makes me feel like I'm starting my life all over after running away or something.) In the course of my errand, I paused by the ice-cream-delights door of the freezer section. After eliminating all the Ben & Jerry's flavors as tired, my eyes stopped on something new in the Brigham's section. Seasonal flavor alert! I love seasonal flavors! And from Brigham's no less - the people who have mastered the ultimate seasonal flavor - Peppermint Stick. How could I go wrong?

In this case, the seasonal carton was labeled 'Frozen Pudding'. And I thought 'score'. Because what do I like more than ice cream? Pudding. Brigham's had magically combined the two for the Holiday Season? Gorgeous. I put it in my little hand cart. Frozen Pudding was coming home with me.

I'm going to skip the part of the story where I take the Frozen Pudding home, dish it out, and lovingly dig into it with my special little long-handled spoon. I am going to skip it, because it is too traumatic, and I'm honestly not done processing those emotions yet. Suffice to say, the cause of my shock and horror: I had ended up purchasing the most offensively foul tasting frozen food ever created. In sum:

THIS PRODUCT DOES NOT TASTE LIKE PUDDING. THIS IS SOME OLD PERSON EUPHEMISM FOR 'HORRENDOUS FROZEN MIXTURE OF VOMIT AND DRIED FRUIT'.

There should be a disclaimer-tag affixed to each carton. It should be printed in bright yellow, with raised lettering: WARNING: DO YOU LOVE ACTUAL PUDDING? IMAGINE EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE OF ALL THE WONDERFUL THINGS PUDDING IS. THAT IS WHAT YOU WILL FIND INSIDE THIS CONTAINER OF COLD, CREAMY DAIRY HELL. At the register, you should be required to sign a waiver before purchasing or consuming this product, to confirm that you have read and understand what will happen inside your mouth upon consumption.

In hindsight, maybe I should have done my due diligence and inquired about the ingredients. I would have then discovered that Frozen Pudding is sadistic ice cream industry slang for 'Vanilla ice cream with seven fruits (pineapple, peaches, pears, raisins, apricots, red and green cherries) marinated in dark rum' and I would have said 'Holy fuck, that sounds atrocious, and what the fuck is a green cherry?' and saved us all this trouble. Oh well. Hindsight is 20/20...and I'm a blind damn fool for pudding.

A Most Righteous Father Christmas

If you know anything about me, know this: I hate Christmas music. Despise it. I don't hate the holiday season (although I do hate winter weather, a topic best left for a later posting, lest my head explode) and I do like how everyone pretends to care about stuff (world peace, hungry children, diseases; you know, causes besides global warming) for the month of December. But from the first time I hear a snippet of 'Jingle Bells' blaring onto the sidewalk from a department store loudspeaker while trying to avoid the throngs of commerce-zombies the day after Thanksgiving, to the final hours I spend locked in my parents car on December 24, en route to another family Christmas party, flipping the radio stations in a fury nearing homicidal proportions, searching for something besides 'Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer' or the loathsome 'Little Drummer Boy', I seethe hate for Christmas music. Really, it pains me almost physically.

Because I can be a resourceful thing, I have developed methods to avoid a Silent Night induced psychotic break culminating in the random stabbing of innocent pedestrians with the heel of my shoe. One tactic involves total meditative oblivion (great for noise-blocking, shitty for crossing streets, not recommended if you have small children who require noise-monitoring) and my favorite is simply jamming along to the old faithful Sony Bean (although its headphones have become quite faulty, and occasionally deliver a robust electric shock to my inner ears.). If I could have one Christmas wish, it would be to ban all Christmas music from the Earth, forever. Or at least mandate that it only be played in a register I cannot hear.

There is, of course, one glorious exception. Nat King Cole's bananas Seasonal Collection: Nat King Cole, A Christmas Song. Nat could soothe me into the Christmas spirit any damn day of the year. He brings actual soul to songs that are typically served over-warm and dripping with cheese - and it makes all the difference. Seriously, listen to this at your next holiday event, and see if it doesn't make you feel authentically, wholly in-tune with the season. It completely doesn't matter if you don't celebrate Christmas. My family hasn't 'celebrated Christmas' in years.

I'm not judging you for liking the music of the season - I'm just saying: for anyone who feels a similar surge of bile every time 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree' wafts into your ears...take refuge in Nat. Your savior is here.

Discretion Advised: Apocalyptical Delusions, Hating and Bad Language Ahead

Ever know someone who seemed perfectly nice, well mannered, polite, unobjectionable looking, totally unremarkable in almost every way; a person that all your friends and colleagues either liked or (maddeningly) adored - and who you could not fucking stand? Yes?

To add to your frustrations, this person - let's call them Jerry - is so evenly appreciated across all segments of the population,poor little you can't find a soul to commiserate with. Not a one. Conversations start with promise, then wither and die on the vine, like so:

You: "Hey, do you know Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Who?"

You: "You know...Jerry?"

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Oh. Yes."

You (sensing a possible twinge of disgust - an opportunity?): "I...don't really like Jerry as much as everyone else does."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Really? Neither do I. I - "

You (excited, ecstatic, it's Christmas in July): "REALLY???? Yay! I fucking hate Jerry! I hate his smarmy face, I hate his entitled demeanor, I hate his shallow soul, I hate his creepy sense of entitlement resting on the knowledge that he will be critically and commercially lauded because Cameron Crowe wrote every word that comes out of his date-rapey mouth and directed every drippy, saccharine moment in which he speaks. I hate his complete and total lack of actual spiritual and moral development. I hate that no one else notices that he is the same GAPING ASSHOLE from the first second we meet him until the moment we walk away. I hate that I am the only person walking away in disgust. I hate that Jerry, that caustic prick, takes a series of connected moments of self-entitlement and overblown egotistical grandstanding and spins them into actual character development. I hate that racist, sexist dickhole, and I hate the world that he lives in and the air that he breathes, and he makes me believe in the concept of Hell and that Satan walks among us in human guise."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "I was going to say I adore Jerry."

You (deflated, foiled again, ego bruised from once again misinterpreting the tone of another party in a conversation): "Oh."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: "Seriously? You hate Jerry Maguire? Everybody loves Jerry Maguire. It was like, the best movie of the mid-90's."

You (red-faced, moving towards scarlet; all shame and embarrassment swallowed by your boiling rage): "The widespread success of the film Jerry Maguire was the very first sign of the Apocalypse."

Other Party in Imaginary Conversation: Remains silent. Turns and walks away. Avoids you around the water cooler and at all future social gatherings. Whispers conspiratorially with those gathered near them, glancing towards you when they think you aren't looking: "she hates Jerry."

In Whimsical Defense of 'Genius' Architecture

I like architecture. I like it a lot. And while I may be overly partial to European churches of the Romanesque and Gothic periods, I also really love American architecture. The Boston area isn't exactly a crappy place to live if you're similarly inclined - not just because we have the Charles Bulfinch stylings on Beacon Hill and the South End's Victorian Brownstones (although that's part of it), but also because we have delightful, whimsical, and apparently wholly problematic Strata Center at MIT.

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Plenty has been written about the disaster area that this building has become - it leaks, it molds, you can't get out the emergency exits, there's a lawsuit, Frank Gehry's firm was paid $15 million, you get the picture. A lot of people really hate the building, a lot of people really hate the notion that creative 'genius' (I don't like the term) has ruined, or significantly corrupted, what is, at it's core, a functional art.

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Me? I like federal rowhouses, I like churches with soaring steeples and ridiculous ornamentation and I really, really dig the Strata Center. Shock! It's so modern! It's so tippy and angular! The horror! Whatever. It's silly. It's loud. It might have a completely nonsensical interior. And it's fun. Bottom line - this building is just really fucking fun, and bless you, Frank Gehry, not for your crappy Tiffany's collection, and not so much for the Disney Concert Hall in LA, because that building creeps me out, but thank you for injecting a badly needed shot of whimsy into this buttoned up, stodgy, last-call-at-one-and-there-are-laws-against-happy-hour-young-lady town.

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Remember fun? Remember random doodles and coloring books and cartoons and juice boxes and Leggos that you accidentally left on the woodstove so they sort of melted a little but still work perfectly well? That's what this building reminds me of. On a much grander scale, obviously. But listen - right now, we're this deeply divided country embroiled in a tragically misguided war, actively flirting with what could be a really, really shitty economic downturn, and maybe what we need in the midst of all this might be a building that looks like it was plucked off the block of a Seussian neighborhood and plopped onto the nerdiest campus in America.

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Who cares if it's structurally sound? Let it be irrational. It's Dr. Seuss, it's Rahl Dahl, it's a fairy tale - albeit an edgy one for so-called grown-ups (although, read any Dr. Seuss again, that shit is crazy political.). Let us be juvenile, let this building function as a children's story, a dream-like belief that the world can be something very different than it is right now.

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Some people agree with me, entire books have been written by those who explicitly do not, who cares. It's excessive, it's ostentatious, but in the end, is it that far from what people initially thought (or would have initially thought, if they had time between milking cows and tending goats and making bread and otherwise supporting feudalism to think about contemporary architecture) about Amiens Cathedral? It had structural problems...and it took 16 years to mostly finish. No, the Strata Center is no Amiens, and they come from completely different contexts and serve totally different purposes...all I'm saying is - leave the geniuses alone. Let them make you happy.

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Well played, Frank.

Other Uses for Your Ridiculously Excessive Collection of Shot Glasses that You Acquired in College, Can't Throw Away, and Which Have Become Irrelevant in Your Apartment, as Gone Are the Days When You Routinely Took Shots of Vodka with Thirty-Five Other People

1. Ashtray.

2. Collection Device for Rings (or earrings, or thumbtacks, or cufflinks, or other such tiny items that you can never find; especially useful for items that come in pairs, but for which you can never locate the partner item.).

3. Tinier receptacle in which to hold salt, or in which salt can be transported from room to room, when you have misplaced your salt shaker once again, but have retained, as always, the large blue Morton salt container from which all salt comes to the table.

4. Bedside aspirin holder.

5. Pepto-Bismol dispenser (for when you have dropped the one that came with the bottle in the scariest corner of the bathroom and are too terrified to retrieve it, never mind consume medicine out of.).

5. Single-serving soy sauce cup.

6. Water dish for guinea pig or giant hamster.

Overdue Props

You know what song has spent the last three years doing nothing but convincing me to love it? Smokey Robinson and The Miracles 'You Really Got a Hold On Me'. I realize that I'm a little late joining the party on this one.

For a person who has loved Motown deeply since diapers, it always bothered me that this song creeped me out so intensely. But I was watching Sesame Street the other day (I know, 3/4 of each damn episode is dedicated to Elmo now, and it's rarely worth the time, but occasionally I'll catch a gem sketch from the 80's and it will make my whole damn day. A tip - Plaza Sesamo, the Spanish language version, airs a lot more old school clips. Yes, they're in Spanish, but when was the last time you saw Prairie Dawn play the piano? Exactly. And who couldn't benefit from five minutes of elementary school Spanish instruction every day?) and I had a flashback to a skit set to 'You Really Got a Hold on Me' that really tripped me out as a toddler.

Using the modern magic of YouTube, I was able to find it.

Here it is; a delightfully creepy number featuring Mr. Robinson himself, and the letter U. The 80's were so fucked up. And 80's-era Sesame Street episodes followed asuit - but they were also freaking genius. Anyway, it explains why my whole generation is a little...off. And, why my emotional memory always took me to a bad place when I heard this song. Good news though - I totally appreciate it now.

That was a tangent, and I apologize. The point is - I am no longer creeped out by the song. I love it more with easch listen, and I feel grown up for it. Maybe it's lame, but it makes me feel like I've gained some modicum of maturity. What can I say, somethings grow on me with age. Acquired tastes. Like whiskey. And the History Channel. And bad pornography. I told you...off. Blame the 80's.

An American Obsession?

An alternative title for this posting could have been 'Mechanical Bulls and the Drunk People Who Love Them'. Or: 'Ways in Which to Publically Rock Your Crotch'. Whatever heading you prefer, we're talking about Mechanical Bulls. Specifically, why we feel compelled to ride one the moment we’re in a 50 foot radius of one. Quite puzzling.

If you’re not familiar with the Mechanical Bull in a Bar experience, I’m not sure you’re going to relate to this post. Or to anything I have to say, ever. But no matter. The concept is this: A mechanized bull is placed in the center of an enclosure similar to a boxing ring. The ring is filled with mats which, in concept, should make it hurt less when you fall. The Bull is operated by a trained technician of some sort (usually their training is in the areas of ‘Bartending’ or ‘The Security Arts’). You get on the Bull, the technician presses some buttons and cranks a lever, and the Bull spins and bucks accordingly. Eventually, the technician gets sick of your moves, (which you think are exemplary of your superior coordination, because you are drunk) and speeds up the Bull. You will hang on and look stupid, and then you will be thrown to the mats. Which doesn’t hurt at all (because you are drunk) but for some inexplicable reason, you will not be able to walk or move your arms the next day.

My question is this: why the hell are we compelled to ride a fake bull until our crotches throb and our fingers bleed? Where does this desire come from? Is it a completely American thing? We have to tame and master every wild and out-of-place element in our environment, even if it’s a man-made mechanized object? Sure, it’s a ridiculous amount of fun. But you’re in a bar. A crowd will gather. You will not look cool. And someone is going to take pictures. Go ahead, Google Image ‘Mechanical Bull’. 900,000 drunken action shots.

Which brings me to my second point: why do we want to watch this? Before I had experience with the Bulls – when I only knew about it through movies and television – I thought it had to be a sexual component. I assumed people crowded around to gawk at the gyrating female riders. But that really can’t be it. In person, there is no sexy jiggling. There’s just your inebriated friend, or the kid celebrating his 21st birthday who can barely hold himself upright. So it can’t be that. Then…what? Our universal impulse to judge people? Our morbid universal delight in witnessing a train wreck in action?

I can’t judge anyone on this – the riders, or the gawkers. But just think about it, people. Mechanical Bullriding, like drunk go-karting, can be a very poor decision. And in both cases, you will have whiplash the next day.

Oh, and my final point – who washes those mats down at the end of the night? Anyone? The technician? If you do ride, at least bring disinfectant.

First Sip

Since most sixth graders have their own blogs, including my dear friend, the esteemed Mr. Evan 'Conventional Stupidity' Schiller, I figured my time has come. I have no idea what I'm doing though, so please - bear with.

After all, I still don't have an ipod. I'm one of those people who swore it wouldn't last. I opted for the Sony Bean.

Have you stopped laughing yet? Right. But there is still no ipod in that pretty pink color.

Anyway, welcome.