I'm a Careless Daughter

For my class this semester at Tufts, which had a fancy name but I lovingly call "Slavery Lit", I read Harriet Jacobs Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. It's her slave narrative, published under a pseudonym, Linda Brent. It was the first written document by a slave that discussed the sexual abuse that women slaves endured at the hands of their masters (and others). She says in the narrative: “Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Super-added to the burden common to all, they have wrongs, and sufferings and mortifications peculiarly their own.” As a feminist, of course I agree, right? Everything is harder for women than for men. But facetiousness aside, her narrative really got to me.

I have no idea how anyone endured what she did and didn't come out broken. Instead, she was able to escape, mend relationships with her children, and go on to do great things. People break in much less horrible circumstances.

In summary, she was born into slavery, sold after her mother died, and then bequeathed from a kind mistress to that woman's niece, who was only 5 at the time. So, while she was technically owned by a child, the child's father was her actual master. In the book, he is called Dr. Flint, but in real life he was Dr. Norcum. When Harriet was only 14 or so, he began following her around through her daily tasks, whispering filth in her ear and making sure she knew to be afraid. Soon afterwards, he took his infant child into his chambers at night, which then required a slave to be there to help so he could get her without interference from his wife. When Harriet confessed everything to his wife when questioned, instead of being protected by the woman, it never came. In desperation, she became pregnant by a single white man in town who was sympathetic to her situation. Dr. Norcum didn't care and the treatment didn't cease. Finally, when she realizes he is going to sell off her children to mess with her, she escapes. For seven years (SEVEN!) she hides in a crawl space above her grandmother's porch. Very few people know she is there, not even her own two children, who are living below her with the grandmother. After 7 years, she really does escape and winds up in New York and eventually Boston. Once Massachusetts passed the Fugitive Slave Law, which they had been holding out on, she was in real danger again. Dr. Norcum had been making trips north looking for her over the course of a decade and once he died, his family continued to pursue her. She was finally bought by friends in the north who then freed her.

I realize slaves were beaten. Horribly. To their death, often. But Harriet shows a different side. A side where your psyche is beaten. Horribly. And die a sort of death because of it. Some would even say a worse kind of death. But Harriet didn't succumb. I have no idea how. And the thing is, when young women are subjected to psychosexual abuse, it's bad; but when it continues into adulthood and then motherhood, it becomes even more powerful.

Anyway, I've been really affected by her story. And so I went to visit her yesterday. I parked at Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA and walked through the 25 degree sunny weather along the rows, searching her out. It was easy to find her stone, since I knew through emails with the cemetery people that it is getting some work done to it, so it's laying on the ground at the moment. I didn't know her daughter was buried beside her. That was a nice surprise. I hung around for a bit, took some photos, and had a moment with her. I was having a rare and particularly snarky bad day and thinking of her made me put my shit in perspective and remember what other people have endured.

She says in the introduction to her narrative: “Rise up, ye women that are at ease! Hear my voice, ye careless daughters! Give ear unto my speech.” -Bible, Isaiah 31:9. This is so huge. Before she even begins her writing; a pouring out of her heart in a way a slave women has never done before - she appeals to those not enslaved to hear her story and react to it. To use their innate power to somehow help. And she appeals to women specifically. This isn't unlike some of the female fiction writers of that time (Harriet Beecher Stowe and Lydia Maria Child to name two - the latter of whom edited Jacobs' narrative). They too appealed to Northern white women to step up and get involved with abolition.

I fear that I would've failed. That if I had lived in Boston in 1850 I might've just thrown up my liberal, abolitionist hands in complete defeat. Let me imagine myself then - mirrored from what I am now. I'm a spinster at 37 - having not married, there is no longer a question I will. I have a job, since I must in order to support myself, having moved from my farm-home north of Boston in Chelmsford in my mid-twenties after spinsterhood was clear but my willful ways wouldn't allow me to remain under my parents' roof. I'm not well connected enough or weird enough to have rubbed elbows with Louisa May and her ilk but I'm adventurous enough to have made my way in the big city. Being an abolitionist - an ardent one at that when talking with friends and family - perhaps I do some writing in some of the newspapers focused on that. But, like myself now, do I actually DO anything? Do I protest? Do I participate in the underground railroad? Do I use every extra dime I have helping people get from the South to Canada? Or do I just sit in my little rented room and hope that soon it will end? That's mostly what I do now. I rant. I write a bit. And I throw up my hands in defeat. I hate to think that I would've done the same then.

Harriet, thank you for your strength and courage. Thank you for leaving words for me. They are more powerful than anything else you did: your school, your programs. They allow me, now, 150 years later, to check myself and make sure I am doing enough, which I've determined, I'm not. For what is the real difference between slavery and gay rights? What is the real difference between slavery and predatory lending? Other forms of injustice and prejudice and oppression? (Don't anyone jump - yes - I understand ownership of people versus other things - but I am tired of discounting injustices because, well, they aren't as bad as fill-in-the-blank. This is not a hierarchy of horrid - it is ALL bad.)

I shall reflect on this over my much needed break in the next couple of weeks. While I am basking in the sun and sea of Puerto Rico, which I can afford, with my friends who love me and talking with my family who will miss me over the holidays, I will remind myself how lucky I am. And what a responsibility I have to do for others because of it. And I will maybe decide that this year, to step it up a bit. To consider my role as a "careless daughter" and what that really means.

Brokeback

The first time I saw Brokeback Mountain, in 2005, in the theatre, I sobbed so much I had to wait to get up at the end until I had control enough again to walk. I was touched by the story, touched by the pain of Ennis and Jack, men feeling something they could do nothing about. I was mad at a world that continues to attempt to keep gay men and women from loving, even though my state had legalized their right to marry just the year before. I wept for lost time, lost love and for people not being able to be who they are. I wept for gay men and women, but especially men, who are violently tortured and killed just for being gay. I was amazed when it didn't win Best Picture that year, losing out to Crash, which was a good movie, but not even remotely as good as Brokeback. (I was consoled a bit by the fact that Larry McMurtry and Annie Proulx won for the screenplay and Ang Lee won for direction - even after all 3 nominated actors were also snubbed.)

A friend mentioned last week that she'd watched it again, and how good it was the second time around. We talked for a bit about the things that can be noticed on a second viewing of a movie that affronts every sense the first time - once you are prepared for it. We talked for a bit about the loss of Heath Ledger; about how the world is a little bit less wonderful without him in it.

I watched it again yesterday. It affected me even more than I thought it would this time. This is not the "gay cowboy movie," it is a serious love story, as serious and important as any other love story ever told; perhaps more serious and important than many others. It is a story of hidden love - of love that cannot be fully realized or enjoyed because of fear. Ennis says, "If you can't fix it, Jack, you have to bear it." And in this line is the crux - two young men in 1963 and through almost 20 years of stolen moments - bearing it is really all they can do.

There are some incredibly poignant moments in this film, and clearly the writing, acting and direction are to thank. When Jack finally contacts Ennis again, 4 years after their first summer together, Ennis waits for him like a child on Christmas morning, sitting in the window and getting more and more anxious as time passes; the viewer can feel the anticipation. Jack finally arrives, and although it was clear that Ennis was the one who needed to be convinced the first time around, he takes one look at Jack and his body and his emotions take hold of him and he is lost. He takes hold of Jack's face and looks in his eyes and in that moment, anyone can see that this is real. This is the love Ennis has missed while he was busy trying to build a marriage and rear his kids and earn enough money for their keep. He leans in to kiss Jack, holding onto him with urgency. My entire being was affected on this second viewing - I wanted to cheer and cry all at once.

The scene where Ennis and Jack first discover sex together, while violent and abrupt and a tiny bit scary, is equally as poignant. How perfect that the writers and director and actors understood that scene must be that way - that without it, we would never had bought into the story as a whole. Two men, cowboys, no less, in 1963, one with a fiance waiting at home end up having sex in a tent on a mountain? We have to understand the stretch that was - that there was something important behind it in order for the entire story to follow to work. Jack is clearer in his sexuality. He has already fallen for Ennis and it likely took restraint on his part to wait as long as he did before he reached for Ennis's hand and arm to wrap it around his own body. But Ennis? Ennis we know could've gone his entire life without ever having an encounter with a man - sexual or otherwise. He would've just accepted his life as it was dealt to him, and would've passed up the love with Jack if Jack hadn't've been brave enough to offer it. It's what makes the rest of the movie so brilliant. Because this isn't just a passing thing; it isn't just another fuck. It's real love on both their parts, but especially Ennis'.

The scene where Ennis meets Jack's parents and finds their shirts - carefully threaded into each other in Jack's childhood bedroom shatters me. He's there, hoping to catch a last moment of Jack-ness, in his room, his boots, his clothing, and yet, he finds love again. In the form of two bloodied shirts, kept by the love of his life as a reminder. Jack's mother, who clearly knows Ennis is her son's lover, must be aware of the shirts' existence and is quick to offer Ennis a bag to carry them when he returns downstairs with them. In her "Come back to see us again" line, she says so much. She says to Ennis that she loved her son, that she knows how much he loved Ennis and that she can see Ennis' pain in the loss of him. She validates Ennis' entire being - for here is someone who knows his secret and accepts it about him. (Jack's dad is not as understanding - but he doesn't throw Ennis out; he doesn't punish Ennis for loving Jack, he allows him a moment's grace - a far cry from what many men in his position might've done.)

As the movie progresses, Ennis' marriage fails, Jack continues to try to convince Ennis they can build a life together if they just tried, and ultimately, Jack dies, deep sadness takes hold of me. How many times can Heath Ledger, with that gorgeous face speckled with freckles evoking innocence, cry in complete despair before I too, break down? How many times can Jack, with a pure, unadulterated love for Ennis, beg him to build a life with him? How many more times can society refuse to allow people to love each other? People who aren't hurting anyone? People who just have love - piles and piles of love - should be allowed to share it with whoever they want to, wherever they want to, however they want to. Yet. Here we are - much as we were in 1982 (the last time Jack and Ennis spend a week together) - with people not allowed to do just that. I would venture to guess that if two men met next summer in Wyoming on a ranch and fell in love, they would feel just as compelled to hide it as Ennis and Jack did. Sad world we live in.

I am so grateful that Annie Proulx wrote this short story for us and that Ang Lee and Jake Gyllenthal and Heath Ledger decided to make the film. It is a gift. A beautiful, heart-breaking, amazing gift. One I will watch many more times in my life, now that I've reminded myself just how important it is.

Bring on the Pat-down

The latest brouhaha in the US this week is airport security checks.

The TSA has never had a very good reputation. Everyone can tell stories about what happened to them in the security line - pre-9/11 and post. Not everyone knows why we take off our shoes and coats and sweaters that count as coats, but we do it. Introduce something new and some people will complain, bitch, and cause problems. They will mess it up, bring the wrong sized Ziploc bag, get their brand new 12 oz. lotion confiscated, forget their pocket knife is in their pocket and have to use one of those mailer envelope things to mail it home and hope it is there when they get back. Introduce something new and there are also real facts to point to about why it isn't working. An agent makes a mistake, someone's urostomy bag accidently gets torn, too much force is used. Absolutely all of this is true. Shit happens. It happens all the time, everywhere, this is no exception. (See the time the MBTA agent at Back Bay who confiscated the university credit card I had an authorization letter to use and told me I was a criminal and made me cry. That was fun.)

But I just don't get it. I don't get how people can see these new machines and optional pat-downs as assault or invasive. You get in a machine, which my home airport, Logan (Boston) has had for a while now, and hold your hands up "stick-up style" for about 10 seconds and then you walk out. This is what the image looks like that someone in another room somewhere sees:



Apparently there is some concern that these images are invasive and show too much of a person's body. And, that they aren't being erased from the system and could end up on the internet. Okay. But who can tell who anyone is? If someone wanted to take my image from the xray machine and print it somewhere, go ahead. Nobody can tell who I am from it. And before you go off yelling about it, even if I had one boob and two belly buttons, the chances are still slim someone could attach my name to it.

The level of radiation in the machines is supposedly safe. People are concerned that it isn't. Okay. Well, lots of things they told us was safe wound up not being and lots of things we thought were unsafe wound up being just fine. This has gone on for as long as we can remember. Lead paint anyone? Asbestos? Not sitting on the toilet seat to avoid AIDS? Saccharin is still up in the air and has been since the 70s, yet millions of people reach for the Sweet n Low every day. The list would be as long as you cared to make it.

So choose not to go through the machine. That's fine. You can do that. But if you do, you get the pat-down. That's the way it goes, peepers. And if you now complain that's too invasive, go back for your dose of radiation. Those are your choices. And if you don't like those choices, you can choose to not fly. If you're lucky, your airline will be handing out refunds.

A pregnant friend of mine who travels A LOT for work has been bypassing the machines and getting the pat down for a while now. She described the experience to me. She said the lead-in verbal info was so long about what they were going to do, she finally interrupted the poor woman TSA agent and said "I'm not modest, just go ahead." Then the woman told her every step she was going to do before she did it. She said, I'm going to run my hands up your arms. I have to run my finger under the underside of your breasts. I am going to put one finger into the waistband of your pants and go around. I'm going to run my hands up your leg until I "meet resistance" - apparently the nice way to say "hit your crotch." I asked my friend if they cupped her crotch. Nope. None of this description sounds invasive to me.

The little boy in the video who was supposedly being harassed at the airport needed the pat-down. Some dude recorded the entire thing with the father asking the boy to cooperate and then taking the boy's shirt off for the TSA agents, which was entirely his doing, and entirely unnecessary. The boy got the normal pat-down and went on his way. The dude who videoed it was asked to delete it since it violated the family's privacy but he refused and instead made it viral on the web. Who in this story violated someone's rights? My vote is for the a-hole with the video camera.

New security measures have continuously been put in place for flying since airlines have existed. In the 70s, with the hijackings that were happening, they began to step it up. As more and more people accessed air travel in the 80s, more security measures were necessary. And of course, we all know the post 9/11 measures and those that have followed. And every time someone figures out how to breach the measures in place, we come up with new ones. This is just another natural step in the progression. And it's one I think we can live with. In 5 years, we won't even remember when we didn't have to go through the xray machine. I can barely remember when I didn't have to take my shoes off.

I am not fully addressing the fact that some people are subjected to repeated "second checks" at airport security because of how they look. This type of profiling happens all the time. It happens to a number of people I know, both people of color and scruffy or hippie-looking people. And this is super annoying for them. And I'm sorry it happens.

I am fully aware that there many people who don't agree with me on this. I'm not asking you to. This is my opinion. Women have been subjected to cat-calling on the street for basically all eternity and it continues today and nobody's up in arms calling that assault and abuse and trying to stop it. So.

On the whole, I think there are better things to worry about than this. People are hungry. People are going in this holiday season with absolutely no means to provide even a modest gift for their kids. I would love for people who can afford to fly to be with family or enjoy a vacation this holiday season to consider the privilege that goes with that and then be respectful and helpful so we can all get where we are going safely. I wish we'd swallow some of what I see as our over-sensitive modesty and just move along. Perhaps eventually, we'll all be as non-chalant as these people:

The Booty of My Soul Wants It Some Pop

I don't really care about music. Let me put that out there right from the start. I'm a book person. A movie person. I don't own an iPod (my 587kb shuffle I got as a gift hardly counts), I don't have an iTunes account, I own about 50 CDs and almost all of them are from college or before. I listen to NPR a lot. I skip the music section in my Entertainment Weekly.

But something weird has happened to me in the last 8 months. I have found a reborn delight in pop music. Top 40 music. Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, some dude called Tiao Cruz, Rhianna, even Brittney. I seem to like it all. When I don't have NPR on in the car, I have on Kiss108 and when Ryan does the AT40 on Sunday morning, I'm actually interested in which song is number 1. It's like it is 1985 again and I'm 12 and we're begging Mom and Dad to let us stay in the car until the announce the number 1 before we go into 12 o'clock mass. Or we're rushing out from quarter of 11 mass so we can hear the last 5 or so. Back then, though, of course, it was Casey Kasem making the big announcement.

It all began last February, during the planning for the international symposium that my institute at Tufts does each year. I was still new in my job and was learning trial by fire. My days were 8-10 hours of pure hell, sometimes with both my landline and cell each on an ear and emailing at the same time. There were seemingly hundreds of students in and out of my office all at once. So I turned to Gaga. I created a station on my Pandora called "Poker Face" and rocked to pop to calm my soul. Prior to that, my Pandora stations ranged from Jack Johnson to Ben Harper to Michael Franti to Tori Amos. Not really pop stuff.

And now I'm lost in it. I love it. I know a lot of the songs by heart. (This is partly because Kiss108 tends to play the same songs over and over and over ad nauseum.) I actually enjoy them. I got all excited when I saw the video for Willow Smith's single "Whip My Hair." I sometimes feel like going clubbing.

I'll admit. I don't know all the artists' names. And I don't know from whence they came. I don't really care, actually. I just dig the beat and dig the songs. My Katy Perry Pandora station keeps me going all day long. Flo Rida makes me smile, even if I have to look up what applebottom jeans are. Jason DeRulo makes me want to keep riding solo and be proud of it. Kelly Clarkson is the bomb. Gaga - oh, Gaga how I love thee. Katy - you go girl. Marry Russell Brand in India with your crazy blue hair self. Bruno Mars, yeah, you stole the title "Just the Way You Are" from Billy Joel, but your version is also kick ass, so you're forgiven. And all the cool pairings! Rhianna and Eminem, Katy Perry featuring Snoop, Elton John and the Gaga. So great.

So, there you go. I have no idea what's happened to me. And my taste. But the booty of my soul wants it some pop. So I'm going to go with it. And maybe actually go clubbing one of these weekends.

Television Worth Watching

I am known as someone who does things the whole way. Obsessively, perhaps, but never entering the psychotic. I get into things and I do them and talk about them incessantly. I tend to leave things behind just as easily once something is over or the next best thing comes along. In any case, television is something I'm a little obsessive about. The television I watch I get a little passionate about. I lure others into watching shows I like. I talk about shows with other fans as if the characters are not only real, but our buds. I've done this for as long as I can remember. (My real relationship with television didn't begin until college, because my mother regulated our television viewing so stringently, even through high school, that anything prior to 1991, I've heard of, but don't have an intimate relationship with, unless I caught up through syndication, which I did with some things.)

For your reading pleasure, and perhaps viewing pleasure, here are my current obsessions and recommendations for television worth watching. In this age of Hulu and Netflix, I've managed to watch entire seasons in a weekend and entire series in a month or so. You, perhaps, might space it out some more: up to you! For the record, this isn't in any order of preference or best to worst. All of these I've deemed worth my time over the long haul, so they are all good!

Dexter, Showtime, Seasons 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 currently airing, twelve 52-minute episodes per season
This show, about a vigilante serial-killer blood-spatter expert is brilliant. It is well written, well acted, the scenarios are not so crazy that you can't buy them. The supporting cast members are great and the seasons are awesome in that each episode has elements that stand alone, but there is a story line that follows through the entire season as well. You will love a serial killer and cheer him on.

Grey's Anatomy, ABC, Seasons 1 - 6 available on Netflix, Season 7 currently airing, between 15-24 42-minute episodes per season
I have watched every episode of Grey's Anatomy in order the week they aired. I have cared about Meredith, Cristina, Alex, Izzie, George, Derek, Chief, and Bailey since the start. I have cared for Lexi, Mark, Callie, Arizona, Owen, Tedy and the others as they have joined. I have mourned deaths, wondered how someone would survive, cheered successes and cried with characters. I feel as though I could walk into Seattle Grace and know what everyone was talking about. Some say this show jumped the shark a while back, but I either don't care or don't believe it. I'm sticking here until this show ends.

The Amazing Race, CBS, Seasons 1-9 available on Netflix, Season 10 currently airing, twelve 42- minute episodes per season
The only reality show worth watching, TAR doesn't have any downtime for anyone to be a poser of any kind. The tasks and pace and exhaustion level requires people to be themselves, good or bad. The locations are great, the tasks are always culturally related, and watching 24 Americans make their way around the world is always good fun. As a traveller, nothing is better than this!

Breaking Bad, USA, Seasons 1 & 2 available on Netflix, Season 3 just finished and coming to Netflix, Season 4 slated, 7 eps Season 1, 13 after that
The lead actors in this amazing show keep winning awards. Walter is a high school chemistry teacher who is way too smart for his job and trying endlessly to make ends meet for his family (a wife, a disabled teenager and a new baby). His DEA agent brother in law introduces him to meth, and he finds an ex-student Jesse and begins cooking the best meth Albuquerque has ever seen. A tangled web of lies, crazy violence, some pretty dodgy characters and some edgy storylines ensue. I never knew I'd know so much about meth. Just this morning, there was a story on NPR about CVS being in trouble for selling too much Sudafed to repeat customers, and I knew why that was a problem before they even said that it was a major ingredient in meth! See what TV can teach you?

Friday Night Lights, DirectTV and NBC, Seasons 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 to air on NBC next spring, 22 42-minute eps Season 1, 13-15 thereafter
This show is about three things: football, Texas and Jesus. And I could care less about all three of those things (except that my sister lives in TX, but that aside...). People recommended this show to me for years and I laughed them off. And then I watched the pilot one night in a fit of boredom and I was hooked. On the pilot. This show is also about kids, and struggles, and marriage, and trust and love and hardship and selflessness. I have cried during approximately half the episodes and I sobbed (sobbed!) during one. I feel as though I know these people and I want to move to Dillon, TX and hang with them for a while. I miss characters who have moved on, and I"m worried about the fate of others as I await the final season to be available, because alas, season 5 is it for this beauty of a gem of a show.

Modern Family, ABC, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 24 23-minute eps per season
Winning the Emmy for best comedy in their freshman year as well as an acting award for Cam, this show is hilarious and poignant at the same time. Everyone I know loves this show. No more need be said.

30 Rock, NBC, Season 1-4 available on Netflix, Season 5 currently airing, 22 23-minute eps per season
Tina Fey is genius. Alec Baldwin is brilliant. The rest of them are amazing. This show is esoteric, weird, hilarious, and just plain fun. Rumor has it Alec is leaving after this season and we'll see what happens after that, because Tina is no where near the end of her career and I can't wait to see what else she cooks up as we grow old together. Liz Lemons of the world unite!

The Office, NBC, Seasons 1-6 available on Netflix, Season 7 currently airing, 22 23-minute eps per season
The funniest shit on TV. Hands down. And when Steve Carrell leaves after this season, the rest of this ensemble cast will hold their own and whatever new person joins them will likely be hazed to hell and back, all for our pleasure.

United States of Tara, Showtime, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 finished airing July, coming to Netflix soon, Season 3 in the works, 12 30-minute eps per season
Toni Collette is Tara, a suburban housewife with two kids, a husband, and bunch of other personalities. John Corbett is in this (I have been in love with him since his Northern Exposure days) pretty great series about how the family and Tara herself handles multiple personality disorder. Since I've only seen Season 1 so far, I can't completely vie for this one, but my roommate and I both loved it and I watched the entire of Season 1 twice, so there you go.

Big Love, HBO, Season 1-3 available on Netflix, Season 4 coming soon to Netflix, Season 5 in the works, 10ish 58-minute eps per season
I wrote an entire post about this. Check it out here. I'm anxiously awaiting the next season of this to come out so I can rejoin this interesting family.

Glee, Fox, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 22 42-minute eps per season
Everyone loves Glee. It's fun, campy, important, and fun. It has a kid in a wheelchair, a gay kid, geeks, cute boys, pretty girls, pregnant teens, unconfident adults, mean people, and diversity. And singing. The singing is pretty great. It's broken all kinds of records and is totally worth watching.

Family Guy, Fox, Seasons 1-8 available on Netflix, Season 9 (I think) currently airing, lots of 24-minute eps per season plus a few bonus 2-hour specials
I know I already said that The Office is the funniest shit on TV, so I obviously can't say that again. So I will say this is the funniest offensive perverse shit on TV. For me, this sits on the right side of the line that SouthPark sits on the wrong side of. I love every gross joke, every reference, and every time my mouth drops open and I yell out, alone in my room, OH MY GOD! I can never believe what they get away with on this show and I can never get enough. Peter, Lois, Meg, Brian, Stewie and Chris are awesome. I hope Seth keeps making this for a long time coming.

Parks & Recreation, NBC, Seasons 1 & 2 available on Netflix, Season 3 airing (not sure when it's starting), 22 24-minute eps per season
The first season of this show was only okay. Season 2 was awesome. It really found its footing, Aziz Ansari really got funny and Amy Poehler really sat into Leslie Knope and made her the bumbling small town bureaucrat we all love. The side stories are funny, the small town feel is great, and Leslie is just an idiot, but a funny, sincere, loving idiot. Rob Lowe is staying on for Season 3, so we'll see how this rolls out.

The Middle, ABC, Season 1 available on Netflix, Season 2 currently airing, 22 24-minute eps per season
I was told that this is hilarious recently and just started watching in Season 2. I will likely never see Season 1, since its a sitcom and I probably won't bother. But it is great! Patricia Heaton, the mom from Raymond is the mom and the janitor from Scrubs is the dad. They have three idiot kids. Seriously - idiots. They live in the middle of the U.S., hence the name. Mom and Dad have never lived anywhere else and are trying their best to raise their three kids amongst no money, jobs they hate, and regular day to day craziness. It's the perfect show for a bad-economy US.

Woah. And to think I keep up with all of this, plus I read about a book or so a week. Remember that I don't have cable in the house, so I don't have access to stuff like HGTV and then waste hours watching Curb that House or whatever that stuff is called. I don't get pulled into Barefoot Contessa and watch her cook for an hour. I only watch stuff I mean to be watching. There's some perks to being single, too. Tons of disposable time. No kids or partner to care for. I don't even own my house, so I barely have to take care of myself, let alone anything else. Lots of time to experience media!

Happy watching!

Friday 5 - MOMENTOS

One of my favorite topics. I used to be a keeper of many mementos. Less so now, in my old age and after about 20 moves in 10 years. One of my craziest memories about mementos is that I had a basket with a top of all the things that meant something to me in high school under my desk. It had everything from notes from boys to cards from people to rocks from the beach to dried rose petals. To a 17-year-old girl, it was the basket of dreams, hope, belonging, love and future. One morning, in a huff because he was pissed he had to do the chore, my brother, eleven at the time, emptied the entire thing into the garbage and threw it all out, mistaking it, in his rage, as my trash basket. Admittedly, my trash basket was also a basket, but obviously had no cover and was bigger. I didn't find out until after school, and it being trash pickup day, we were unable to recover any of it. I was a raving maniac for a while. And then I got over it.

Okay, today's Friday 5: MEMENTOS

Do you still have your senior yearbook? Where is it?

Yup. On my bookshelf. It was missing for a number of years and then magically reappeared, I have no clue how. I've actually pulled it out recently in this age of Facebook when people friend me and their profile photo is of their kids and I can't even remember what they look like or who they even are. (Why, by the way, are those people friending me?) I was the Business Editor of my book (why? no clue. why?) and it is GORGEOUS. Granted, it's 1991 gorgeous, but still. It's got a suedey/velvety cover and gold embossing and a cut out on the endpaper and the theme is Greek-God-inspired. It's pretty awesome. And so, yes, I keep it.

What souvenir did you bring back from your last trip?

I travel a lot. And I have rituals now of what I get as mementos. 1. Always a flag of that country. In little fabric version, if possible. Like the kind you get a the 4th of July parade. If I can't get fabric, I get a patch or sticker as a last resort. 2. A keychain that is relevant to that country and it goes on my great travel carabiner of keychains. 3. A piece of locally made or locally inspired (or better, both) jewelry. I have some amazing pieces I've collected over the years made by people in cities, villages, art communities, and more. To truly answer this question my last trip was to Peru. I got a little fabric flag (which took FOREVER to find) of both Peru and of Cusco (which is a rainbow like the pride flag although they are not fond of this likening)), a little porter shoe keychain, and a very cool coca leaf set in silver pendant and as a bonus, some earrings in Lima made from dyed seeds for the equivalent of about a dollar.

What visible signs are there of your most recent injury?

I am always covered in bruises. At any given moment I have anywhere from 1 to 10 of them. Mostly on my shins. I bruise very easily and always have. Now that I ride my bike a lot, I get them on my shins all the time just from a tap of the pedal.

What’s the neatest wedding favor you’ve ever seen?

Huh. I have to think on this. Mostly they are lame, right? I guess something interactive is best. Like the one wedding that had a photo booth and you got a strip of four little photos and a little stand up frame. That was good (thanks Matt & Danielle). My friends Sara and Chris actually made, themselves, strawberry rhubarb jam and jarred it up for everyone. They ruined the first batch and had to completely start over. That was pretty cool. My sister and her husband made CDs for everyone of music they care about with little recorded intros. However, burning 400 of those puppies sucked. And they were still doing it, on three computers, the night before the wedding. Insanity.

What do you do with playbills and movie-ticket stubs?

Keep them in a little pile of crap on top of my desk for a while and then I throw them out because why the hell am I keeping them? I do, however, keep all the tickets to museums from trips, bus tickets, maps of cities, subway tokens and tickets, little stirrers from coffeeshops, and the like in this cool journal book made entirely of envelopes that my friend Kathleen gave me. There's an envelope for each trip and I stuff all the stuff in there and I have no idea why I keep any of it either. Maybe if someone visits Cusco soon, I can give them al my tips and hints by going through that envelope.

HAPPY LONG WEEKEND!

Friday 5 - New Month!

(My own photo, taken in VT last winter.)

This week's Friday 5 is DROPS.

What was the last thing you dropped on the kitchen floor?

Food. Onion pieces, specifically. I am a very messy cooker, trained by an even messier cooker, my mother. I routinely drop food all over the floor when I'm cooking. Then I have to clean it all up afterwards. Which I'm not very good at either. Sometimes I find old pieces of whatever when I'm sweeping two weeks later. I know: gross.

What cough drops do you like, and do they work very well?

I usually buy those natural ones, store brand. Cough drops are expensive! I like ones with menthol in them, because I don't really use cough drops very often but it's nice to get a clear nose to go with my soothed throat.

Who was the last person you dropped off somewhere?

Um.....it's been a while, which is weird. So I'm turning this around. I picked up my roommate from the airport on Saturday when she landed from Stockholm via London after a two week business trip. Then I dropped her off at home, but that doesn't work because I live there too so I went inside with her.

When were you ever dropped like a bad habit?

Never that I know of. I would rather this read "Who have you ever dropped like a bad habit?" And so, I shall answer that question. Almost 2 years ago, I found out an ex-lover/friend had cheated on me all along and had lied to me for over a year. I called him up, told him I found out, read him the riot act, hung up and I have never spoken to him ever again. We have mutual friends, so I've been aware of some of his comings/goings since then, and he actual emailed me about 11 months after everything went down, and I ignored/deleted that. He can still bite me. Bad habits be damned.

What are your favorite kind of raindrops?

Absolutely none. I hate the rain. Anyone who knows me knows I hate the rain. I hate getting wet when I don't mean it. (I even hate being wet a little even when I do mean it.) This is only in this decade. I think it's because for 2 years when I was living in Thailand and teaching diving, I was wet all the time. Wet bathing suit, wet clothes, hot and sweaty weather. And my skin hated it. So now I've developed a psychological reaction to it. There have been days when I have had to walk to the T in the rain and am almost crying by the time I get there because I'm getting so wet and I hate it so much. I know: crazy.

HAPPY FRIDAY! RABBIT, RABBIT!

The Letter I'm Not Sending After All

September 20, 2010

Dear Mr. Putz:

I am writing to tell you of my disappointment in my recent experience with writing a letter to the editors of Boston Magazine. Let me begin by telling you how much I enjoy your magazine. I read it cover to cover every month and await its arrival at my home since I’m a subscriber. I think the in-depth reporting is fantastic and the subject matters covered are always interesting and well done.

When I received my September issue, I identified right away the Glee take-off on the cover. At first I thought it clever as a way to highlight the annual school report by using pop culture. But then I read the article and with even more interest the article about the charter movement and Roxbury Prep. I am very familiar with Roxbury Prep, having worked with their students and staff quite a bit when I was on staff at Boston Cares. I also care a great deal about the charter school movement. I am not a parent, but I care about education and about the students in our community. The more I considered the importance of this report each year and the impact it can have on area students, parents, communities and schools, the more annoyed I became that the cover was so fanciful, and if you’ll allow me to use the word: cheap.

It bothered me so much that I wrote a letter to the editor through your online mechanism. I’ve never written a letter to your magazine before, although I’ve written other publications. This is the letter I sent:

“Dear Editors,

I am a big fan of Boston Magazine. I await my copy each month and I love the in-depth articles and fantastic reporting you do, as well as the little tid-bits. I read it cover to cover and I am a fan on Facebook and I get your Weekender enewsletter as well.

I am so disappointed in your choice for cover for the Best Schools issue. While I watch Glee and I love it, I do partially because it is so campy and the things that happen on the show hopefully aren't happening in real schools (athletic directors starving cheerleaders and being generally mean, principals being blackmailed, teacher battles, treatment of students, guidance counselors needing counseling themselves, etc.). For you to parody the show on the cover to highlight a feature article that we look forward to each year which is serious and important seemed to me to cheapen the reporting.

I would've loved to see the Roxbury Prep students on the cover. What an amazing experience that would've been for those students, for the charter school movement overall, and for a neighborhood/community which is usually seen in a negative way in the media.

I continue to look forward to receiving my magazine each month, but felt compelled to share my feelings on this cover with you.

Best,
Karen
Jamaica Plain, MA”

Later that same day, I received a response to my email from Jason Schwartz, identified in his email signature as a Senior Staff Writer, asking me for my express permission in order to publish my letter in the magazine. I realize this could’ve been a formality, something done with every letter received. I responded straight away, giving my permission. Between the time I’d written the letter and was now writing the permission email, I’d read more of the magazine, so I added a P.S. to my email to Jason. My email in its entirety said:

“Hi Jason,

You have my express permission to print my letter to the editor if you wish. I live in Jamaica Plain, MA and my daytime number is xxxxxx if you need to reach me.

Thank you!

Karen

P.S. Just read the Gods and Mobsters article which was awesome and the Dunkin' article is one of the best things I've ever seen in print. What a great way to do that article. :)”

Imagine my surprise when I opened my October issue yesterday and found that I was indeed printed under the letters section, but not where I expected. Instead, under the section dedicated to the Dunkin’ Donuts article, there was my parenthetical post-script comment to Jason “’the Dunkin’ article is one of the best things I’ve ever seen in print’” wrote Karen of Jamaica Plain.”

I didn’t give permission for that to be printed. Don’t get me wrong: I loved the Dunkin’ article. But that wasn’t why I wrote you. And I didn’t give permission for it to be printed. I wrote a letter because of something I saw as an injustice. It was something important enough to me to sit down and write it out. And instead, that experience was also cheapened by your staff’s decision to pull a P.S. from an email and print that compliment instead of the criticism I was offering. I would rather have seen nothing from me in your magazine than to have this comment printed, since it was the complete opposite of my original intent.

I’m so disappointed again. What a bummer of an experience with your magazine. To first be disappointed in your cover choice and now be disappointed with how someone handled my correspondence.

I, of course, will continue to be a loyal reader. But my enthusiasm is dampened. I will anticipate delivery of your magazine with a little less verve than before.

I thank you for your time in reading this letter.

Sincerely,
Karen
________________________________________________________
I'm not sending the above letter because this morning I also emailed Mr. Jason Schwartz, and said this:

Jason,

I just received my October edition of Boston Magazine. I was shocked to see that you didn't use any of my letter to the editor, but did use something that was typed in a P.S. in my permission email to you. I gave you permission to use the letter to the editor I wrote. I didn't give permission to use a parenthetical line from an email to you. I'm even more disappointed now than I was when I wrote the original letter. I took time to write a letter about an injustice I saw (which you were welcome to ignore and not print at all) and instead you printed a compliment I made as a side note. I love your magazine, but I'm disappointed in this staff decision.

Sincerely,
Karen
Jamaica Plain
______________________________________________________
And he said this:

Hi Karen,

Thanks for the note. I think we owe you an apology. This is just one of those things that happened in the wash of putting that page together—it sometimes happens that we need a line in one spot for something or have to cut for space on another thing. It was totally not our intention to make it look like we were ignoring your criticism and just including the kind words (and we really do appreciate both). That page—like all of them in our magazine—goes through a lot of editors and it just sort of happened. I realize that this might not be the most satisfying explanation, but please know that we really do value your input as well as your loyal reading of the magazine.

Thanks again.
Best,
Jason

AND SO, THEY ARE FORGIVEN. And the Editor need not know.

One City One Story

Last year, the Boston Book Festival was revitalized. (It appears to have been a Globe run event years ago and then it just died completely.) A nonprofit was established and for a full day in October, Copley Square and the BPL were overrun with people who write, think about, write about, and care about books.

This year, they are back for a second go at it and it looks like a spectacular line up. Check it out here. I missed it last year because I was away in Turkey, so I'm really looking forward to this year.

As a new initiative, they have selected and produced a One City One Story publication with a short story by Tom Perrotta. They are giving out 30,000 copies all around the city prior to the October 16 Festival. Perrotta is local and wrote Election (movie made famous by Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick) and Little Children (movie made famous by Kate Winslet and three Oscar nominations - including a writing one for Perrotta). He's got a new book coming out this fall called The Leftovers. The One City One Story is called "The Smile on Happy Chang's Face" and it is pretty great.

I was worried about how I would get a copy, since I bounce between JP and Tufts and hardly ever get in between - to the heart of Boston. But then I went to the free Pops concert on the Common on Sunday and there I noticed the huge orange BBF logo on a table across the grass. I ran over and got my copy of Perrotta's story, all happily bundled up in a little white booklet with staple stitching and the same awesome orange ONE CITY ONE STORY on the cover. I went right back over to my seat, and since Keith and Co. hadn't started performing yet, I read it right then and there.

Wow. Now, I realize I could've read this story before now. Perrotta wrote it in 2005 and it has been published in some other places, most notably in the Best American Short Stories of 2005. But I never came across it before.

I can't wait to attend the Town Meeting that is happening at the BBF to discuss the story (or hear it discussed, more likely) with Perrotta himself. (As an aside, there is nothing better than talking about a famous author's work with the famous author!) I'm really hoping I can make it to that - I'm waiting for the final schedule to be announced on the BBF website.

The story is about a little league game. The protagonist is one of the umpires - Jack. It's a town where little league is a big deal, and the umps and coaches and players all take themselves seriously. There's a fantastic pitcher named Lori Chang, a little slip of an Asian girl who just guns one pitch after another into the plate. Interwoven into the story is the backstory of the Jack's life, which has fallen apart in recent years due to some major mistakes on his part. He's full of anger and full of hope and just a giant mess overall. And he's trying to redeem himself through his actions during a town little league game.

As I was reading, I gasped at one point and my phone rang at that exact moment. I ignored it, because I couldn't stop at that particular time in my reading. And then I read forward with a vengeance, because I desperately needed to know what the outcome was going to be. I've no idea how many words this story is, but you wouldn't think it was long enough for me to care about the characters that much. That's Perrotta for you, though. He creates characters who are flawed - often drastically or irredeemably so - and makes you care enough about them to stick it through to the end and beyond. (Here I am writing a blog post about his story, right?)

I hope Bostonians (and those who venture into our fair city) will pick up a copy of the booklet and read it. Here's where. You can also download it here. Even if you aren't going to the event (which I also hope you'll do), it is great read. And it's a neat feeling to know that a whole bunch of other people are reading it too. Common experiences are cool. Common intellectual experiences are even cooler because they are pretty rare after leaving school; as an adult. The people at BBF knew this and made this happen for us as a city, which I love. Thanks for that, BBF!

Things to Let Go Of

Today is the autumnal equinox. The first day of fall. The beginning of the annual end. The season when things die and fall down and fall off and shut down for the winter. The season of letting go and moving on and preparing for the glory of what comes next.

There are a few things I should let go of. Perhaps we should start a tradition, wherein we make "Let Go Resolutions" in the fall something akin to New Year's Resolutions in January. (Considering I hate those, I have no idea why I'm advocating for even more.)

My list is thus:

1. Let go of body issues. I am not fat. I am a big person, bigger than most women. I am tall, and broad, and strong and heavy. I am also curvy and voluptuous and healthy and strong and not hard on the eyes. I should just let go of feeling bad about my body.

2. Let go of annoyances I have with certain people. Those people are in my life. I love them. And the constant annoyance is not helping me and it's not helping my relationship with said people. And really, the word annoyances is right. These things I harbor are teeny-tiny in the grand scheme of the world. My life would be smilier if I let go of these.

3. Let go of hatred. I hate a couple of things/people. Like, really harbor anger. I should just get over this. This one is a tall order. I don't take anger lightly and I never have. It's not something I like having. But it's getting stronger and stronger instead of lighter in this instance and it's time to try to let go of some of it.

4. Let go of worrying about money so much. I have enough. More than enough. Plenty. End of story.

Letting go is easier said than done. The leaves seem to have it down much better than we people do. But, ever notice those last couple leaves still hanging onto the branch after most of the others are already rotting away on the ground? I'm one of those. I just am. It's who I am. But I can always reiterate my desire to change and try it again and again. On this equinox, I pledge this.

Friday 5

This week's Friday5 is NAGGING.

What kinds of nagging injuries do you have?

I have lower back pain that started in high school, disappeared for a lot of years and is back now. I also have stupid plantar fasciitis, especially in my right heel, so I always have to wear sensible shoes.

What long-procrastinated task is nagging at you lately?

I really need to save all my photographs on some kind of back up (external hard drive, online, something). I need to get on that.

In what way have you been a nag to someone else?

I'm a nag all the time at work. I am the one who is always pointing out that now the event is less than 3 weeks away and nobody is invited.

Who in your life is a world-class nag?

Nobody really. I'm lucky like that.

Nag is such an ugly word. What would be a nicer way to describe someone who exhibits nagging tendencies?

Asshat. I love that word!

Burned

And so, in the end, the pastor in Gainesville didn't burn any Qur'ans.

But he managed to draw enough media attention for the whole world to know that there are Americans who would think of doing such a thing, and on 9/11 to boot.

Whose fault is this? His or the media? Me, for checking out the Facebook page incredulously? Obama and Petraeus for even deigning to issue a comment? I'm not going to point fingers. It's everyone's fault.

This post is about the actual act of thinking of burning the Qur'an. Who even considers burning a holy book? I mean, seriously. I am horrified by the idea of burning books at all, regardless of one's reason, but at least if you are going all Fahrenheit 451 and you think you are ridding the world of filth, you have a reason that is potentially sound, in my opinion. It doesn't make it right, but you could argue your point and I'd listen. But burning a holy text of a legitimate religion practiced by approximately 1 billion people on Earth? As an act of hatred? C'mon.

Yes. Terrorism exists. Yes, the 9/11 attacks were claimed by Muslim extremists. There are extreme sects of pretty much any organized religion. Some of them practice violence and some don't. Some practice violence in very opaque ways (such as refusing to recognize the sexual orientation differences amongst people). And there are terrorists who don't act in the name of religion; see Timothy McVeigh and the Unibomber, amongst others.

You know what, whatever. I shouldn't even have to make any of those above points. The only point needed here is that whether we are at war with a country or not, whether we have a problem with a certain religion, whether any action we take would potentially cause problems for us, whether or not we've been wronged by a group, there is no justification for burning the holy book of other people in an act of defiance or as a statement or really, for any other reason.

The Muslim religion is very close to Christianity. Muslims pray to the same God that Christians do. (And Hindus and Buddhists for that matter.) I've not read the Qur'an, but I've read the basic tenets of Islam and really, is there much to argue with? Yes, Muslims adhere to some strict rules that are hard for some free-wheeling Americans to really understand. They have ritual around eating. There is Ramadan and fasting. There are dress requirements that some participate in. There's a strong sense of belonging. In Muslim countries, this is the norm. It is the air, as much as Christmas and Easter is here. And I'd argue that those countries are much more religious-based than we tend to be. I'm not sure if many Christian Americans could tell you the history of some religious rituals they participate in without a second thought.

I spent time in Turkey last year and I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times a day as it wafted through the air over the loudspeaker wherever I was: the biggest city or the smallest village. I found it as beautiful as I do "All Come All Ye Faithful" sung in my childhood church in Chelmsford on Christmas Eve. I'm not a religious person, but I know faith when I hear it or see it, and I respect it, no matter what form it is taking. No matter what form. No matter by whom.

I'm not thrilled that a sect of a religion has chosen to attack us - to hate us. But there is no excuse for anyone using that as an excuse to justify hatred of an entire religion and group of people who have done nothing wrong. Especially a religious person. One who supposedly preaches the tenets of Christianity, which last I checked included the Golden Rule.

Good job getting your 15 minutes of fame, pastor in Gainesville. Media, are you sure you should've covered this quite so much; to have given it so much credence? And me: here I am, waxing on about it, after the fact. I guess we're all guilty, in the end, of something. We all get burned.

Summer 2010

With each passing year, I enjoy making this list more and more. My annual "What I Did This Summer" post!

bought a bike - started to commute to work on it - visited Todd & Kate in STL - was a First Thursdays artist (three times!) and sold magnets made from my photos for the first time - rode a 25 mile route from JP to downtown and through Southie and back - went to my 15th college reunion - fell in love with Dexter - watched the first two seasons of Breaking Bad (love!) - took Mom & Dad zipping - did a bikeathon for Bikes Not Bombs (25.75 very hilly very hot miles) - enjoyed another year of CSA - went to an info session and meeting for a MA program at Simmons - rode a 25-mile route along the Charles out to Watertown and back through Newton - suffered through some serious back pain - passed my one-year anniversary at FitCamp - went on a motorcycle date - cared for someone in a lot of pain - spent another awesome 4th at Chez Boss at Cobbetts - visited Christy in NJ - went to the JP Lantern Festival - did a sprint triathlon - found out about Aquabikes, which is like a triathlon without the running part, perfect for me - biked to Deer Island (40 miles round trip!) - realized I have the capacity to really really hate someone - read more young adult novels than I can count - fell in love with Katniss from Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay - acted as a reference for a few people doing job searches and helped them get offers! - saw the first two Dragon Tattoo movies at the Coolidge - found out a 'hood friend is happily pregnant - wandered around Cusco, Peru for three days - hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu - spent a week on Long Island, Maine - kayaked Casco Bay Harbor from Peaks around Cushing to Portland Light, along Cape Elizabeth, over to Little Diamond and back to Peaks - saw my first Cirque du Soliel, Ovo - was rejected for the first time from donating double reds because my iron was 2% too low - took iron pills for 2 weeks and went back and happily donated double red blood cells - biked, LLBean style, through the rural hills and coastline of Freeport and Brunswick, ME - learned that LLBean's name was Leon Leonwood Bean - found lots of seaglass on the beach - made a necklace from a piece of blue printed porcelain rubbed smooth by the sea - made an amazing tee-shirt for Sonia after spending a day walking around JP looking for the letters of her name (see photo above) - grew beans, zucchini, basil and cukes - grilled everything you can think of - visited Sonia, Susan and Suneel in Houston - went to a cool Eugene O'Neill & e.e. cummings tour in Forest Hills Cemetery - had great networking lunches with a few people new to me and one or two old to me - made it to one Sox game at the last minute on Labor Day weekend with SRO tickets for the Coke Deck for only 25 bucks - went to the "End of the Summer" Party at Cobbetts & stayed over one more time - had a great, HOT summer.

2009's post
Summer 2008
Summer 2007

Friday 5

A blog linked to my blog, written by growing-up friend, Marla, had this post today. It's a super cool idea and is brought to us by http://www.friday5.org. My answers are below. Check out Marla's here.

What are the coolest and ugliest tattoos you’ve ever seen?

I love sleeves of any kind. I don't even really notice what designs make them up. I just love that people have the balls to do it and how awesome they look. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about:



Ugliest? A woman I saw yesterday had dots tattooed up the back of her legs, like the seams in stockings. They were weird and I wasn't a fan.

Have you ever had a meal in which squid ink was an ingredient? How was it?

If I did, I didn't know it. But if I did, I wouldn't mind. I love all kinds of weird food and will try anything.

Are you one of those people who has a favorite pen, or one of those people who just uses whatever’s at hand? What’re your favorite pens like?

Totally. I have a serious addiction to Pentel Twist-Ease .7 mechanical pencils and cannot live without mine. This summer alone, one got lost and another stopped working. I had to go out and get more that same day. Pens, yes. I vary a lot, but I like black better than blue and hate ink rollers that write too quickly. I dig a really good ballpoint. I still like writing long hand, but it tires me out. I generally only do it when travelling.

There’s a box of colored markers on the table, and someone tells everyone assembled to grab one. If you have first pick, what do you take?

Red.

Have you ever written on a wall in a public place?

I don't think so. At first I thought "Well, surely I've done that," but now I'm second guessing. I think not. I've stolen so many signs (street, traffic, restaurant, ski-area, etc) that all the petty criminal activity begins to blur together.

Happy Friday!

Blocking the Box

I haven't ranted on this blog in a while, so I figure I'm due. That and the yelling and screaming to myself in the car is getting really stressful. I'm hoping that someone in City Hall has a Google alert set up, and I'm going to use every phrase I can think of that THE CITY OF BOSTON might have used in said Google alert so they somehow come across this post.

I've been riding my bike to work 2-3 days a week since April, which has reduced my car-driving stress considerably. But, last week, after getting home from vacation, I was lazy and drove every day. And then it commenced raining like hell for 3 days straight. So, I drove through the city for 8 work days in a row, something I've not done since last winter.

Keep in mind, folks, that it is still technically summer in Boston. There are some students dribbling back this week, but there are still no school buses or little kids on the streets. Traffic is still "light".

Boston drivers are notoriously shitty. Shitty in their skills, shitty to each other, shitty on reaction time, and they make shitty decisions. This actually applies to most Massachusetts drivers. A friend and I were driving to Maine, and when you cross the border from Mass into New Hampshire, there's a sign that says "Drive Courteously. It's the NH Way" on the side of the highway. We decided it was just for the Massholes crossing over as a warning to stop driving the way they usually do and remember they are now visitors in someone else's home.

I learned to drive here in MA, drove mostly in my small hometown and then headed to college and didn't drive at all for 4 years. Then I went off and became a Maryland driver and a California driver and a Pennsylvania driver before returning to Boston. And I am still a Boston driver at heart. I'm fast and aggressive, and I can look in 12 directions at once if necessary. I can bob and weave with the best of them. If you don't have these kinds of skills, you are probably that idiot stopped at the Storrow Drive entrance ramp waiting for an opening. It ain't coming, honey, let's go. Stick your nose out.

Boston drivers are also notorious law-breakers. As a matter of course, they run red lights, take rights on red even when the sign says they can't, change lanes without signaling, travel in the far left-lane with no intention of moving, and cut people off as often as possible. They also flick each other off, yell out the window, call each other names, honk a lot, and tailgate. We would win the gold every time if tailgating was an Olympic sport.

Mayor Menino should be held responsible for the horrible light system in Boston. There aren't any weekend settings, so you sit at lights downtown on Saturdays for three cycles while the invisible, non-existent pedestrians do their crossing. There are badly set lights in Boston and all the surrounding communities so only 3 cars can get through a whole busy clusterf*ck. A friend of a friend who moved to Boston from NYC once said he was going to run for Mayor of Boston just so he could change the effed-up light systems. He went back to NYC.

But this entire rant is about one thing. One. BLOCKING THE BOX. Don't know what that is? You're probably a Bostonian.

Blocking the Box is when someone pulls forward into an intersection but is stuck in traffic and can't move forward through the intersection, so when the opposing traffic gets their light, that someone is still sitting in the middle of the intersection. They are blocking the "box" made by the intersection and now nobody can move across. This is bad for so many reasons. SO MANY; here's three:

1. It's freakin' unsafe. Now an emergency vehicle cannot get through. People are dying in those ambulances, you know.
2. It's freakin' annoying. I have been waiting patiently for about 3 light-cycles already, and now that I'm the third car back, I still can't get through the damn intersection because you are SITTING IN IT. Like a moron.
3. All the people behind me are piling up into the intersection behind them. And there are probably morons just like you blocking the box back there. And the cycle continues.

In NYC, there are signs everywhere that say DON'T BLOCK THE BOX. In Guiliani's time, they probably pulled you straight from your car and hauled you off to jail if you did it. Now they just give you a big whopping ticket. Facts are, people don't do it. Certainly not taxis, which are some of the worst offenders in Boston. New Yorkers know they have to behave on the streets in order for life to keep on keeping on. Why the hell don't Bostonians know that? (And don't even tell me that NYC's streets are straight and easier and so that's why they don't have to do it and we have to do it here to get anywhere. Bullshit.)

In Boston, police officers often just watch this happen and do nothing. NOTHING. The stupid Boston Police Department has officers on the street standing around WATCHING this happen. Pull these f*cknuts over and ticket them. It's a pretty easy concept.

This happens in snowstorms. That's super fun. You know, the roads are already horrible, and everyone's moving at a snail's pace, so let's inch out into the intersection and then just play chicken to see who can force their way through instead of actually allowing the light to do its job. That'll be fun. Maybe we'll slide a bit and hit each other! We can sit in the dark and the snow well past 7 p.m. and into having to pee and being super hungry to add to our frustration and our asshole-ness! Woot. Fun times.

The two most offending intersections I come across regularly for this are the intersection of The Fenway and Brookline Ave (especially during Sox games) and The Riverway and Longwood Ave. The Fenway and Brookline Ave is a virtual corridor to the hospitals and this is very dangerous. Yesterday, I was the SECOND car back when the light turned green for me to cross Brookline and only the FIRST CAR got across. I couldn't go. When people take a left onto Longwood from The Riverway heading east, there is another light right away which is timed badly (BROOKLINE CITY HALL, get on that). So people pull that left anyway, knowing everyone is stopped and then they block anyone who is travelling west's ability to go forward when the light turns green. It's a real mess, considering The Riverway can get backed up all the way back to the Landmark Center.

Boston needs to do something about this. Boston needs to do something about a lot of things, I know. This is likely very low on the list. But the CITY OF BOSTON and MAYOR MENINO should know how completely and totally annoying it is. And the BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT should probably at least tell the cops that if they see egregious instances of this, they should do something about it. Instead of say, standing on the corner chatting to each other. (Possibly reword to eliminate the word egregious, lest they don't know what that means. Snark.)

I'm going to wear my horn out long before I stop driving this car. I just know it. In the meantime, I'm back on the bike.

Highland Road

The house was a combination of beautiful and eerie. I whizzed by it on my bike, headed down Highland Road, deciding not to stop and take photos although both of us were yelling about how beautiful it was and how we wanted to own it. It was early in the ride and we had another 28 miles or so in front of us. That and it had begun raining a bit and the group was mostly still together. Stopping would have been all kinds of a mess. And so we rode past.

Another bend in the road and another small hill found green rolling pastures and rolled bales of hay on either side of us. Again, beautiful, but the stop was not happening. Instead I told Deborah the story about the time on the Amazing Race when the teams had to unroll bales of hay looking for the next clue and one pair looked for 8 hours or more and finally Phil just came out in the dark to tell them they'd been eliminated. It passed the time as we waited for the rain to stop. But it reduced the pleasure that this road could have brought us in all its rural glory had I remained silent and listened to it as it spoke.

We carried on, in and out of the fingers of this part of the coast of Maine, supported by the LLBean van following us to replenish our water and give us snacks and meet us for lunch at mile 19. We stopped to check out a vista point and watched a cormorant, surely a male, stand on the end of a canoe and hold his wings outspread, perhaps to impress the others around him.

Our bellies were still full from the blueberry pancakes that were our breakfast after a night of what can't rightly be called camping since, even though I did sleep in a tent, it was on a cot with a mattress on a wooden platform with a bedside table. Deborah noticed a swimmer way out in a bay and awaited his return to ask him about his workout. We visited with turkeys and goats and ducks at a farm. I stopped to take a photo of a tiny yellow, wooden, painted shed at an intersection in the middle of nowhere with a sign proclaiming it Symphony Hall.

After lunch, Deborah asked the guides about making a sidetrip back to Highland Road before returning to camp. She got directions and told them we'd be late. Off we went.

Amazingly, although it had only been about 4 hours since our first foray down the road, neither of us really remembered the lay of the land all that well. We were surprised by the first steep-ish hill and got confused by the first edifice we saw, unsure what it was. We stopped to take a few shots of the rolled bales of hay against the green of the grass. We had no sun, but also no rain, and the lighting was perfect to capture the colors.



Another bend, another hill and around the corner was the house we remembered. We stopped on the road to get a few shots, and then Deborah headed up the grass path towards the front door. I remained on the road, liking that Deborah was bonding with the house and got her in the frame, listening to the story it was trying to tell us.



The grass path looked freshly driven upon. The roof was newish. Almost no window pane had glass remaining. The wooden slats that made up the outside walls of the house were there, but the wooden siding slats were falling every which way in many spots. The front door was almost entirely covered by a large, unruly patch of blackberry bushes. The wildflowers were taking over in every direction.



I approached. I squatted, I listened to the house. I saw the light through one window and through another to behind the house. I wondered what had happened here. I hoped I wasn't going to get ticks when I kneeled in the brush to get a different angle. We were silent mostly, but also wondered some of this outloud.



We turned around and rode back towards a hot shower and the car to take us back to the city. But I looked back over my shoulder one last time at the house as I hit the first downhill and anticipated another uphill to get us to the end of Highland Road once again.

We noted the address. Deborah wants to know who owned this place and when. An advantage of a really good zoom on your camera is that sometimes you can see things in the photos that you couldn't even make out when you took the picture. I looked slowly through the images when I got home and suddenly stopped short, afraid that I'd see a face or a ghost or something else I couldn't explain in one of the shots. Alas, this doesn't end with a ghost story.

Instead it ends with the willingness to take some time to revisit somewhere that spoke to us and listen. The house was clear with us. It has a story. We may never know what it is, but now we are part of it. We didn't just whiz by on our bikes. We didn't just assume it was abandoned. Because I have a friend who, like me, is willing to wonder.

Dead Woman's Pass

Dead Woman's Pass is at 4200 meters (13,860 feet) and it lies in the middle of Day 2 of hiking the Inca Trail.

It is imposing as hell as one stands at the rest stop below, the last place to buy anything until the end of Day 3. Each day, two local Peruvian/Quechuan women hike up from the village way below to sell Gatorade, M&Ms, snickers, bottles of rum, cans of Cusquena beer and more to those of us hiking up beyond this point.

As I look up, I can see the line of porters dressed in blue (ours) and the line dressed in red (another group's) hiking up towards the pass. They are impossibly small. I wonder how I will ever make it up that high, up that far on a day when I am already exhausted from lack of good sleep at altitude and winded from my lungs' constant request for more oxygen. We head off, following our Peruvian, tri-lingual guide through the valley, even though everyone else was headed up the trail.

We hike along the valley, through the scrubby brush-like grass amongst the llamas for a while. Dead Woman looms above us in one direction; over to the right, a huge craggy mountain top brushed with snow; and behind us, a huge, glacier-topped mountain that's been following us for two days already.

Suddenly, we stop short as an Andean deer, endangered/vunerable, and not seen all that often appears. She's a bit away from us, and decides not to make a run for it. Our guide, knowing I have a camera with an amazing zoom requests I get some shots. When your local guide reacts to an animal as special, chances are it is. I take it out and begin snapping. And then the buck appears. Runs to her and whispers sweet nothings coupled with a warning against humans, perhaps, because they take off together as quickly as he had arrived.

We make a sharp left and scale the side of the valley wall to reunite with the trail everyone else was on. And the worst huffing and puffing of my entire 4-day trip begins. Our group had naturally split into three during the first day and we remain this way on Day 2. There are the youngsters, those with super clean, super capacity lungs and strong legs and ligaments yet to be destroyed with the continued dawning of another year. They stay with our lead guide in the front of the pack, hiking in a neat line along the trail. Then there are the middlers, those of us in our late 30s and early 40s. Fit and able, to be sure (I mean, we WERE doing this after all), but a little worse for the wear. Lungs perhaps compromised by some early-90s college smoking and knees that'd had seen a fair bit of action over the years. And then those behind. A couple of older folks needing to be sure of footing, a couple of less-fit folks determined to enjoy their vacation instead of killing themselves, and the poor youngster with three-year-old knee surgery. It was a clear and natural split.

I find myself gasping for breath in a way that scares me. I don't have any lung issues, but as a scuba diving professional in my late 20s, I had a number of incidents where I got out of breath underwater which is the scariest thing in the entire world, because if you can't catch your breath and calm down underwater, there's a good chance you'll die. So when I get really out of breath, even on land, my brain sometimes automatically tells the rest of me that if I can't get it under control, we'll die. Some super-id part of me must know this isn't true, because my brain and I have an understanding where it listens to reason. But it takes a moment.

As I gain on the top of the pass, named because they found a mummified woman at the very top when they cleared the trail after Machu Picchu was found by the outside world in 1911, I realize I can't just keep walking. The trail isn't a trail, but a massive stone staircase. I am not just putting one foot in front of the other up a hill, I am stepping up each time onto a new stair. It's hard. Very hard. It's worse psychologically than physically.

I set a goal. Take 25 steps up and then stop and get my breath back. It takes only a few seconds to regain my breath and wonderfully (and due to some serious exercise regiments), my quads are not complaining in the least. So again, 25 more steps up. Breathe again. Good. Keep going. I catch up to another "middler" and share my methodology with him. He decides to join the 25-at-a-time club because his own 100-and-stop method was beating him down. Together, we make the summit.

It is cold. Colder than I had anticipated, especially now that I've stopped moving after so much effort for so much time. I have come to 4200m completely ill-prepared. I have no fleece, no hat or gloves (the porter carrying my sleeping bag, mat and other clothes has those things and he's long gone). I have only my rain poncho, which I don since it's sort of spitting and it offers me a bit of warmth. (I am still better off than my new Kiwi friend who is shivering in his t-shirt and board shorts.)

We wait for those behind to join us to make our group whole again, and together, we each take a capful of rum, let one drop fall to the ground to honor the Earth and drink the rest in a toast to our accomplishment, to this mountain and to the nature around us. It warms our tummies from the inside, a welcome phenomenon.

The descent begins now, our biggest yet (our first real one). Down, down, down into another valley. Steps again. Big, stone steps and with each one I wonder if my knees will survive this, as I wondered about my lungs. And I also wonder about the Incas and how they did this. And I wonder about the porters, who make quick work of what is so difficult for me so when I arrive hungry for lunch, they already have it cooked. And I look around in wonder really, of it all. For a Pantheist, there is no place more hallowed than the top of a mountain in the crook of a pass with my lungs burning or my knees aching as yet another hummingbird flutters by and yet another, different colored orchid peeks out at me.