Twelve days? For the birds...

Forty-two geese-a-laying. Forty-two swans-a-swimming. My true love must have survived the economy plummeting and networked with zookeepers.

Frankly, if I had a lover who filled my simple living space with twelve partridges and the requisite pear trees to go with them, I don't know if there'd even be room for the rest of the menagerie. And when we get to the eighth day, which should fall on New Year's, I find people stuffed in my stocking. Lords and ladies and, heaven help us, a fife and drum corp. My lover neglected to buy cattle, though; just what will those maids (five days' worth means 40 of them) be milking?

If we think about this logically, the song does say that "On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree." Ergo, my multiplication is correct. By the twelfth day, which coincides not-so-coincidentally with Twelfth Night, I will have unwrapped 364 presents. My true love has, in fact, purchased a present for almost every day of the year. Maybe I'm enamored with the Mad Hatter, who chooses to celebrate unbirthdays.

Ignore my previous thought. How can we think about this logically? I wonder if there's a coded meaning, wherein Jesus plays the partridge and his manger the fruit tree. Mary and Joseph may have been lovey-dovey, though celibate. I'm thrown when we reach the wise men -- are they from the Oriental Quarter of France?

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are worthy candidates for calling birds, for they sounded the gospel far and wide. When I get to twelve drummers drumming, I'm tempted to use the apostles, but am I allowed to overlap? And five gold(en) rings (depending on which lyrics you sing)? Jesus received gold, to be sure, but also frankincense and myrrh, which are both sweet-smelling resins used for incense.

Unlike Jesus' humble gifts, mine aren't likely to have a pleasant fragrance. Thanks, love, for the swans, but I've heard they bite. We can only conjecture at the meaning behind the gifts, and even then we go astray: I just read that "four collybirds" (similar to blackbirds) were the original gifts for day four. That's what the British used to give; our American sensibilities corrupted the collybirds so that Verizon could have more product placement.



Next year, my true love, may I submit "My Favorite Things" for my Christmas list? Those blasted geese return "with the moon on their wings," and I am allergic to kittens with or without whiskers. But think of the food: schnitzel with noodles and crisp apple strudel. Then again, people cook partridge, right?

There Was A Butcher and His Wife

Dear Showtime,

For me, television no longer equates with mindless entertainment. All the Mad Men furor this year was really the result of HBO and, later, your network offering up comedies and dramas that excised laugh tracks, jazzed up title sequences, and demanded an attention span. Why shouldn't television tackle anything movies can?

I got a free DVD of the first episodes of Dexter and Weeds one day. By the end of each (and Weeds is less than 30 minutes), I savored more. School only allows me to follow a few shows religiously, but when Damages and Entourage and Nip/Tuck ended their seasons, Dexter was there for me. And what a dramatic concept: an empathetic serial killer who, we pray each week, will not be caught or castigated for his crimes. On the surface, we think he's trying to develop his human connection; but beneath it all, his real appeal and vitality comes from his night job as executioner of the wicked.

(By the way: MAJOR SPOILER ALERT AHEAD! ALL KINDS OF SPOILERS!)

When his victims last season were uncovered, how could we stop watching? When the wrong man took the fall for Dexter's Bay Harbor butchery, we licked our lips, satiated that our hero would live on to kill again.

You see, Showtime, I thought you might have exhausted your material early on, and drag the show out Friends-style for years. But self-parody was not on the menu at first: an impressive guest performance from Jimmy Smits as Miguel Prado, as well as the accidental murder of his brother, were. Dexter killed a man who didn't fit his code! Now he's chummy with Miguel! Now he's sharing his innermost secrets! The series peaked when Miguel let his demons overtake him and disposed of a personal vendetta by himself. What Dexter has wrought will now wreak havoc.

But this is why I write. Dexter decided Miguel had to die and offed him at the end of episode 11. What, then, to do in the season finale? Watch Dexter kiss the bride and duck cascades of rice? Oh, that's what happened. Somehow all the loose ends were tied up; nobody seemed overly upset, even Miguel's wife, about his death, and the department incurred no backlash for losing a Miami celebrity. What's more, the Skinner turned into a weak match for a stunningly calm Dexter. Nothing ruffled him in the finale: almost missing his wedding, being pursued, or even being tied down by a serial killer.

Clearly he's cunning at manipulating his own police department. He's got Deb and new wife Rita in his corner. And life seems so hunky-dory that I'm wondering, does he even want to keep killing? Showtime, I beseech thee, your season started so well: step it up in 2009. If Dexter's unmatchable, then raise the stakes. Let either Deb or Rita uncover the skeletons (and scalpels) in his closet.

Emmy-worthy actors like Michael C. Hall can't be squandered in domesticity. Stir him up, pop his collar, let him unleash his rage. We tuned in because Dexter got our blood pumping. Please return us to the cutting edge.

Sincerely,
A slice of reality

Happy Golden Days of Now

I'm full of Christmas cheer this year, and often I flip on Comcast's "Sounds of the Season," channel 501. Right now Robert Goulet is summoning All Ye Faithful, but just two minutes ago, Jessica Simpson was murdering every mirthful aspect of the holidays with something that can't adequately be described as singing or even shrieking. You know that sound when you defenestrate a cat? Okay, I hope you don't -- I don't either -- but I'm speculating.

It's so easy to perform Christmas songs well, even for pop singers; Mariah Carey did justice to the holiday, for instance, with "All I Want for Christmas" (which everyone secretly loves). Right now Olivia Newton-John just came on to show us Christmas from down under; do the lights twinkle in the opposite direction? Hey, she's pretty good with "Away in a Manger," very low in her voice but gentle and reverent. Now she just went from the real melody to the fake one they make you sing in church that nobody knows -- they blend together well.

Let's switch to channel 524, the "traditional holiday favorites." Angela Lansbury and the cast of Mame are rocking out to "We Need a Little Christmas," and although some castmates don't really sing on key, they convinced me to haul out some holly.

Lots of other great Christmas songs come from musical theater composers: "The Christmas Waltz," Jule Styne; "It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas," Meredith Willson. And one of my favorites, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," Hugh Martin/Ralph Blaine. A heartbreaking song when Judy Garland tries to convince her sister that their family will be together next year, if not in St. Louis. Originally the lyrics were flat-out funeraul: "Next year we may all be living in the past." The writers were encouraged to tone down the bleakness, and thus "Next year all our troubles will be out of sight."

Apparently Frank Sinatra wasn't into the melancholy that comes with year's end, so he is the reason many people sing "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough." The lyric in Meet Me in St. Louis, "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow," diffuses some of that New Year's resolution fervor and reminds us how much we didn't follow up on last year's wishes. Just because the year changes out, much goes on as it was. But we won't live in the past, as the rejected lyrics lamented; we will get by, with joy and sadness and whatever else fate has in store.

We need the honesty and bravery (and what Katie called the wistful sentiment) of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." In its mixed emotions, it stirs me more toward hope than anything Jessica Simpson has done. Oh, thank goodness, Ella Fitzgerald just wiped her out with "Sleigh Ride." Can she please run her over again with a reindeer or two?

Edit: Kalyn reminded me that the best Christmas song was written by Irving Berlin. And I am definitely dreaming of a white Christmas this year. Usually it just rains.

Their Eyes Were Watching Blogs

#236 Blogs.
White people love blogs. I myself, convinced that I belong to this group of "white people," checked out Stuff White People Like -- the blog -- to ensure that I fit the most authoritative, or at least most extensive, definition I could find.

Turns out, the issue is a very complex one. Already I have to check off #3, film festivals, not that I've been to any, but I love intellectualizing (and watching) films and I would love a career in film criticism. I cannot check off #10, Wes Anderson movies, for I haven't seen any. Shame on me, future film critic, for not being into self-consciously arty films like his. Also, how could I adequately pursue my dream if I subscribe to #28, not having a TV? Without it, I couldn't watch The Daily Show (#35) or best-contemporary-TV-show Arrested Development (#38).

#239 Self-righteous eating.
White people apparently love it: organic food (6), vegan/vegetarianism (32), Whole Foods (48), expensive sandwiches (63). As an avid carnivore, carb-consumer, chocolate hog, and cheap shopper, I think my skin is a bit deceptive on this front.

#244 Fitting in by being different.
Other things that I don't feel fit for me: hating your parents (17), 80s night (29) -- as if anything good came from that decade besides, well, me -- hating corporations (82), and the obsession with "edgy" and "offbeat" The Onion (109). It's a good thing we're the most unique people.

Sorry, just unique, no superlative. See, white people like grammar (99), and more importantly, I love grammar and feel a sense of moral superiority about it. Sometimes they become so enamored that they go to writers workshops (21) and graduate school (81). There they have black (14) and gay (88) friends, vote for Barack Obama (8) and threaten to move to Canada if he loses (75). If I find myself eager to travel (19) while standing still listening to music (67), rest assured the irony (50) is not lost. These are white people limited to a younger age group, remember, rebelling in safe ways against their privileged (but oh so misspent) youth.

#246 Over-analyzing.
#247 Being existential.
#248 Judging other people for over-analyzing and being existential.
I wish this were simple. I drink tea (13) but not coffee (1). I'm not a yoga-lovin' hipster (15) , but I do enjoy those unpaid internships (105), musical comedy (77), and the Sunday New York Times, if only in theory (46).

Maybe I'm not the ideal white person, but I sure have things to contribute to the people. For example:

#256 Self-deprecation.
#260 Ambiguity.

Oh, and also #261 Tacky Christmas lights.

The Rite of Winter

The minister in church this morning told a story about Stravinsky. He wrote a fiendlishly complex violin solo, and the soloist approached him to say that, well, he had practiced but it was impossible to play it well. Stravinsky chuckled and said that he was after the sound of the soloist trying to play it well.

Life is full of incongruities, isn't it? Like tonight, I was hellbent on making spaghetti squash, which peels apart like little strands of angel hair when cooked right. (And did I cook it right? Oh yes.) But I didn't know how to get in: the sharpest knife we had couldn't slice through the squash. So Kate suggests, facetiously, that I get out my saw. Five minutes later: Kate is taking a picture, which will probably be on Facebook soon, of me sawing into the vegetable. (Warning: Don't try this at home.) That saw saw me through; the "spaghetti" was magnifico.

Incongruities. I'm plowing through Angela's Ashes - you know, I needed some light reading - but it oddly becomes more lighthearted as it goes on. This kid defines a word in school, and the teacher responds: "Pithy, Clarke, but adequate. McCourt, give us a sentence with pithy." "Clarke is pithy but adequate, sir." (That brings me back to archaeology in college; Connie and David remember how all of our answers were to be pithy.)

And it's everywhere. Last night, in the men's bathroom at orchestra practice, I see this sign: "Please do not place sanitary napkins in the toilet." Are they that worried?

I'm riding home on the T last week, and this pair behind me talks without no restraint or sense of being in public about their liaisons among a circle of friends, who presumably were all sleeping with each other. I got off before they could loudly share how they'd inevitably contracted hemophilia. Again, maybe it seems incongruous, but I enjoy it when the train is virtually silent, and I can sit (what a virtue that is on the B line) and read, and be lost in my own bubble contemplating things.

Yesterday I was just finishing up reading The History Boys, a play, on the way home and there was this wonderful hush, only to be spoiled five pages from the end by someone behind me loudly talking on her cell phone. I'm not saying she shouldn't be talking on her cell, but when you think about it, public transportation isn't always so public. It's not really a social venue; it doesn't invite much carousing; people make perfunctory acknowledgments but mostly keep to themselves. Which is fine with me. It seems jarring when people strike up a conversation in what was a few seconds earlier a silent train. Are they networking? Are they looking to score? Where's the code of conduct for the T? (Besides the obvious: Don't block the door. Don't steal seats from old women. Don't tell me you might throw up on me.)

Then again, maybe life is full of incongruities because it should be.

Look, Ma, Top of the World!

Review: Speed-the-Plow
Barrymore Theatre, New York
November 22, 2008

The radiation will overtake us: apocalypse now and later. It threatens to dissolve our cells, our sense, and our spirits. We will be robots on short-circuit, questioning how innocuous words transformed into formidable worlds of terror, and we will lose our collective powers of discernment. Sometimes, you see, the radiation binds us together while it blinds us, slashing across our sphere of existence so that all turns topsy-turvy, and the energy encompasses all it touches.

This end-of-the-world radiation is the primary concern of a second-rate book some cultural know-it-all tossed into the post-postmodern world we live in, where science eradicates thought and we sink further into the abyss of dehumanized anti-realism. Now this isn't actually the world we live in, but the world David Mamet presents us in Speed-the-Plow, a second-drawer play he jotted off in 1988 for Madonna's Broadway debut (maybe that's why the end-of-the-world felt so near).

The book on radiation enters the brand-spanking-new office of a movie producer promoted yesterday. Whenever anyone reads from it, the destruction that this book proclaims sounds more new-age-hippie than science. None of its prose sounds eidetic enough to be captured on film. Why would anyone make a movie about this, we have to ask?

Which leads us to: why would Mamet write a play about a movie about a terrible book on radiation? Does he earnestly believe that the hoopla about an overwritten beach-read has merit or relevance? Then again, look at the power of page-turners like The Da Vinci Code, or the success of secularist bestsellers like The God Delusion. No matter the artistic quality, people just might buy tickets.

When we as an audience begin to question ourselves for being judged so viciously by an admittedly average play, though, the energy takes over. Speed-the-Plow has a three-person cast, composed of two carnivorous producers and a meek little lamb, the temp secretary. And boy do they tear into it when they fling papers and profanities all over the stage.

Jeremy Piven starts out as Ari Gold 2.0, but he reveals himself to be an honest guy beneath the promotion and the new shiny nameplate: a shark on the outside, but a teddy bear beneath. By day three, he's already disheveled, with his morals and his passion and his goodheartedness splitting him down the center. How could he survive among the phony smiles without selling his soul? Fortunately, he only has to sell a little piece to his longtime amigo Raul Esparza, who flies off the handle when he senses betrayal but subverts any wily schemes that hinder his ladder-climbing. He's a ladder-climber without scruples who's glad to fellate anybody for a shot at the top.

Between the two of these men comes a woman: Elizabeth Moss. She's temping, she's easy in bed, and she's just gosh-darn sincere. Or is she? The producers allows her to read the radiation book so that he may sleep with her, which he does. But in the process, she converts him to her hippie way of believing in the truth behind the Hollywood illusion. Effectively shattered, he buys into her ridiculous plan to make the movie about the radiation, betraying his friend but upholding some moral high ground. The sweet girl-next-door, though, reveals herself to be as duplicitous as the others when she struggles - and fails - to stay in the game. Mamet's world is no place for women. Though the secretary's role has interesting implications, it seems better in theory than in practice; there's just not much for her to play.

Thankfully, the acting provides such energy that it overpowers the weaknesses of the writing. Piven and Esparza in particular chew the scenery to shreds with glee and, at least on Piven's part, with a touch of honesty. They sped through so rapidly when performing that it was hard to find the flaws; we can't entirely tell whether Mamet wants us to see an elaborate fantasy or something more realistic.

If it's the former, which I hope, there's nothing earnest about Speed-the-Plow, but a jolt of solid acting and directing animate and electrify what could have seemed in lesser hands like the end of the world.

Don't Cry For Me, Patti LuPone

The truth is, I didn't see you.

But a minor blip in a wonderful holiday weekend in the Big Apple with Connie, Alex, and Christelle. Even though I had work today, I pretended break had already begun. The Rockefeller Center tree was up, surrounded in scaffolding. Saks Fifth Avenue hung unlit snowflakes. Homeless people asked for change on four of my subways. It's beginning to look a lot like Thanksgiving.

I probably spent more than I should on food, but how can you say no to a three-course pre-theater dinner that begins with warm soup and ends with chocolate mousse? It's okay, though, because we hit up the MoMA for free on Friday night, and I paid for my "suggested $10 admission" to the Met (the museum) with $5. Considering I saw about one-tenth of the place, I think that's fair. And who knew there was a temple inside? With a moat surrounding it. It makes you wish you were entombed like a mummy. There's also a very cool European sculpture court, with four statues representing the four elements (earth, fire, air, water). Captain Planet must have been hiding in another gallery that we didn't get to.

The Van Gogh exhibition was sold out at the MoMA, but Joan Miró made up for it. Go look at Still Life with Old Shoe online; it's way psychedelic. There's a sculpture there by Marcel Duchamp called To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for Almost an Hour. So I listened to directions and, once I figured out which was the other side, closed one eye and stared away. The almost-hour was interrupted by a museum guard who chastised me for being too close. It was okay, though; we went into the interactive art room where a film played around us called Pour Your Body Out. The museum allowed us to lie on a round couch, roll about in the midst of a film about women and grass and strawberries, and take our shoes off. Total zen.

Christelle signed us up for her RA event, a walking tour of gargoyles in Gramercy/Flatiron. It was actually really informative; around 1900 the Statue of Liberty's hand was displayed in the middle of Madison Square Park. It was almost the coldest I've ever been, but that honor actually went to the 1.5 hours I spent in line for Gypsy student rush. My toes froze off, but for a good reason: front row center that night.

After our dinner next to a waterfall (true story), Connie and Alex giddily ran into Equus and I dashed across the street to the St. James. I'm handed a piece of paper - Ms. LuPone is indisposed - and greeted with a lengthy box office line. But they tell me I can get a refund at a later time, so at 7:55, I run down the street, wondering what I could possibly get tickets to. Three blocks away, I see Speed-the-Plow with an enormous line outside. It's 8:01, but they're holding the curtain. Finally my turn; I ask if they possibly have rush left. Success! But wait! I only have $10 in cash, and you cannot pay with credit card. With the clock ticking, I race across the street to a hotel, collide into the ATM, and (after waiting for the newest herd of latecomers) acquire my rush ticket. Up the stairs two at a time, into my seat (thankfully on the aisle), and the show begins at 8:15.

Afterwards, I got to donate money to Raul Esparza (well, really to Broadway Cares, but he was holding the basket) and then stagedoored Daniel Radcliffe, who is very short and wore a baseball cap so that nobody could see his face. Thankfully, he appeared within 20 minutes, cause it was, you know, really cold. My lips are now chapped (very rare for me), and I think my forehead got hat burn. You know what rocks, though? The New York subway. Even though all express trains were shut down this weekend, it still took me eight minutes to get from 96th to 42nd. Take that, Boston.

A Maverick for All Seasons

Review: Quantum of Solace

Roger Ebert isn't fond of Quantum of Solace. James Bond shouldn't be an action hero, he says. And true, James Bond in 2008 is practically the brother of Jason Bourne. With the initials, you'd think James Bond was aping him, if there weren't 40 years of Bond celluloid on record.

But Bond movies have always blown up tankers and warehouses and submarines. Car chases stretch back to Dr. No. Blood, sweat, and tears didn't pour out of Sean Connery or Roger Moore, but ever since the eighties, hyper-violence has been in vogue. The difference with Quantum, like the Bourne sequels, is that the camera gets progressively shakier. I couldn't figure out who got shot or drove off a cliff in the first scene, though I was pretty sure Bond would survive. He has since 1963.

Unlike the Brosnans, the Craigs intend to be films instead of popcorn flicks, with angst and relevance and chiaroscuro. Daniel Craig is a lethal killer, with piercing blue eyes and humor drier than his martinis (which, in keeping with tradition, are still shaken). He's still the protagonist, but now the film questions, is he a good guy? As his personal body count grows, it becomes harder to explain it all away with a lover's betrayal and demise. Malice motivates him more than anything; instead of charming quips, he prefers to whip out his gun. That's not an entendre; Quantum offers the most single-minded, least sexual Bond of the series. M at once respects and distrusts him, though she never fears him. Judi Dench is too formidable to ignore, and her performance trumps that of the Bond girls.

The girls, really, are what has changed the most. Pussy Galore from Goldfinger relished the sound of her name, as did James. The newest ingenue is named Strawberry Fields, but her first name can only be found in the credits. In a tempestuous political climate, entertainment can't help but offer social commentary and avoid empty glamour. Quantum goes for substance over style, and if it's not as impressive as Casino Royale, it's not so radically different from the last 20 years of Bond. The vistas are lush, the plotting is sleek, the pace is relentless. It's not afraid of self-plagiarism, as in a Goldfinger-inspired death, or of borrowing the main political thrust of the film from Chinatown.

Craig, Dench, and Mathieu Amalric (a departure from the cultured villain of the Connery era) create characters of flesh and desperation who convince, ultimately, that Bond cannot be a mere retread. But Quantum isn't a reinvention, either. It culls from the past and refuses to be an island, as all events expand upon the ending of Casino Royale. Hopefully next time, though, Bond won't have his license revoked again. Sometimes it's best, as Quantum often does, to stir the martini around.

Live Long, Prosper, and Collect 200 Dollars

The problem with America: free enterprise. In theory it's great, but not when we're enterprising off other people's enterprise. We've lost our originality.

May I present Exhibit A? (It's really Exhibit 'u'.)

Floris Schonfeld, who speaks four languages including Klingon, will appease Trekkies across the world - no, universe! - with an opera. Surely fans of Star Trek and fans of opera overlap. It will be called 'u'. The punctuation represents merging worlds or something, surrounding a lowercase universe. Beam me up the scale, Scotty.

On to Exhibit B.

We've run out of New York Times bestsellers and Pulitzer-winning plays to adapt. Where do we turn next? Ridley Scott sees a surefire moneymaker: Monopoly. The board game. A film about the development of the Atlantic City boardwalk? That's about as exciting as landing on "Income Tax." Instead, it will be a futuristic movie like Blade Runner, with a dash of Corpse Bride thrown in. A true saga of American capitalism, greed, corruption, and space aliens: move aside, There Will Be Blood. I anticipate a tearjerker; bring your tissues for the Water Works.

Exhibit C. (These are all true stories.)

Battleship and Ouija will follow. I can't wait for cinemas next Christmas: shall I spend my $8.75 on Battleship Galactica, The Ouijas of Eastwick, or A Fistful of 200 Dollars? Better yet, let's hire Sarah Michelle Gellar for It Knows What You Did Last Summer. Maybe the Monopoly film could become a slacker comedy, a sequel to Dude, Where's My Car? I'd shell out for Free Parking.

It Was A Very Good Week

Top Ten Things That President-Elect Obama Has Done For Me:

10. Turned the Boston Common into a terrific rainbow of color Wednesday afternoon. Even the red trees looked as proud as vermilion peacocks.
9. Boosted the economy through trendy consumerism: as a responsible voting citizen, I got me a free cup o' Starbucks joe.
8. Brought the battleground back to Virginia, just like the good ol' days (PS. My mom voted for him).
7. Caused Massachusetts to rejoice that an ounce of reefer has been decriminalized.
6. Dismayed Massachusetts that the Maui wowie is still illegal.
5. Sent Annie Oakley back to Seward's Folly.
4. Opened an unfortunate can of worms: why do people still say "an historic," as if that were correct or logical?
3. Granted me a free cup of chicken tortilla soup at Panera tonight. So much cooler than Bush's "get thee to a shopping mall" handouts.
2. Conferred an internship upon me for the spring. I think he's really Santa Claus.
1. Convinced me that I deserve to reward myself. He's buying a puppy; I splurged on a double-chocolate donut.

Seth and Liz Make a Faux Apatow

Review: Zach and Miri Make a Porno

Many highbrow Bostonians attended the Good Vibrations amateur erotic film fest tonight, at the Coolidge Corner arthouse theater. Those of us who wanted an extra layer of meta watched a film about making amateur erotic film. Zach and Miri Make a Porno needs no plot summary beyond its title. A porno they make, and not a very good one. (This is where every newspaper in America writes, oh gee, we just can't print that title.) Along the way, we are desensitized to every offensive word and image that an R-rated movie can pull off. But beneath it all, they really love each other, asserts Judd Apatow. Sorry, Freudian slip - that guy who directed lots of other mildly offensive cult movies.

In this bizarrely vulgar teddy-bear universe of Judd - I mean that Dogma guy - Man Without Prospects bags Hot Girl, then realizes that they share more than just friction. Burned-out losers churn out more four-letter words in coffee shops than cappuccinos. Their circle of outcast friends helps out through thick and thin (skin in this case). It's probably the only movie about porn where Seth Rogen is the one to watch. A self-professed "Beluga whale," he makes a leading man of his earnest schlub who carpes the diem. Zach and Miri knows that there's more to meta-porn than Zach's editing method of money shot, credits, out. If it doesn't plow any deeper, at least we get some instant gratification.

The Seven Last Words on the Gloss

This isn't a rant against bad writing, but more against unnecessary words that pop up in professional writing. Academia can mold -isms galore and transform nouns into verbs willy-nilly, but those of us writing for the educated common man have a responsibility to not insult him. Here are my votes for words that need a cooldown:

1. Pretentious. Guys, Eternal Sunshine was so pretentious, I just couldn't get into it. You would like opera; it's so pretentious. He painted a black canvas and hung it pretentiously in the MoMA. We've all bantered this word about, but rarely with meaning. I didn't get it, so obviously it was pretentious. The term actually means "assuming dignity or importance," or "making an exaggerated outward show." I'd wager that Cher and Madonna on an off-day, with concert tours of flashing lights and 30 costume changes, are much more outwardly exaggerated and self-important than anything showing at the MoMA. But nobody ever calls them pretentious, because they're mainstream. Maybe we're really searching for "esoteric" (or just wishing we understood it in the first place).

2. Ironically. More often than not, we mean "appropriately" or "fittingly." I dressed up as a Kit Kat bar for Halloween, and ironically I got more Kit Kats than any other candy in my bag. Nope, try again. Better yet, just don't say it's ironic at all. Most people are smart enough to get that on their own (unless it's overwhelmingly pretentious!).

3. Respectively. I'm really hating on the adverbs. But when you list three people and then three subsequent descriptions, isn't it obvious that they correspond in order? A parkway and a driveway, ironically, are where you drive and park respectively. All the subtlety of a Mack truck.

4. Ever. From NYTimes.com: "Who ever knew the second president could be so appealing? The DVD set of "John Adams" ... has quickly become one of the company's fastest-selling series ever." It sounds so Seventeen, doesn't it? It's conceivable that someone in the history of existence knew that Adams was a charming fellow, Abigail for starters. As for the second "ever," thank goodness it clarifies. DVDs have been out for a whopping ten years. Nothing like writers helping you parse through the eons of DVD sales to provide some context.

5. Utilize/ironical/desiderated/instantaneously. Examples of the "more is less" phenomenon. If I slip in use/ironic/desired/at once, respectively of course, wouldn't they suffice? 

6. Archaic usage. Check out newyorker.com for the "Red Sex, Blue Sex" article. Margaret Talbot, the ultimate prescriptivist, will not let her language be sullied. And so she utilizes spellings like "teen-ager," "per cent," and "debut" with an acute accent over it, perhaps to give the French some credit after the whole freedom fries debacle. I'd hate for her desiderated superiority to give way in the age of the World Wide Web, electronic messaging, and cellular telephones. 

7. What the [heck]? The Washington Post has this twee habit of replacing expletives with precious kindergarden euphemisms. What a load of [cow manure], no? Is this to guard against teen-age eyes learning words they haven't seen? Somewhat ironical, though, when the Post writes "a sex spoof called (I think we can print this) 'Star Whores'" in its review of "Zack and Miri." Aw, golly gee, it's a dirty word! Seems pretty self-important of these [sillyheads] to sneer at base language usage. Can we say most pretentious newspaper ever?

Grim Grinning Ghosts

We took the ferry to Salem early on All Saints' Day. I credit myself with holding up the boat so that Alexis and John, who were running late, could board. The ferry had started moving and everything. It was very cinematic as I spotted them from afar: the rush of the water, the roar of the engine, the unfurling of the bridge onto the dock. And then we pushed off and noticed something about New England sailing: bloody cold it is.

These chills prepared us for the real horrors to come in Salem. First horror: The pumpkin festival, boasting a 1,000-pound pumpkin, was cleared out in the morning. In its wake were carnival midway stands serving fried dough. The advertised free hot cocoa also went the way of the witches. And we don't believe we got to meet any real witches, at least not in any back alley.

Salem remains mysterious partially because it's not. It remains a quaint New England town with shuttered inns and cobblestone streets upon which outdoor markets sell their wares. The rocky coast, as you approach over the water, is lined with gleaming white sailboats and houses on the hill. Halloween brings out the occult fairs and the psychic expos.

But the town rakes in commerce year-round on its ten variations on the Animatronic burn-the-witches museum. Visit the witches' dungeon or the witches' cottage. Both will thrill you with the same untold tales of that little-known date 1692. (Yes, to celebrate Columbus' subjugation of Caribbean culture two hundred years before, Salem decided to cart Tituba and her witch brethren off to the stake.)

The museum owners could take a trick from the Haunted Mansion at Walt Disney World. The town proper, though, has this otherworldly feel to it, disconnected enough to satisfy those whom urban life has, yes, burned out. Town Hall hosts dark art shows and the mall sells booths to witch school acolytes. Contrast this with about five stands in the square vending sausage and college a capella groups, and you realize that Salem caters to alternative tastes. Where else would the second oldest cemetery in America attract such a crowd?

Another Hundred People Just Got off of the Train

It is a city of strangers, as Mr. Sondheim wrote. On the whole, though, I'd say Bostonians impart warmth and neighborliness despite the descending temperatures these days. The first night by myself (well, with Kate) back in September, we went for pizza at The Upper Crust. When we seemed flummoxed by the counter service and the absence of printed menus, a lady with her family saved our table for us while we waited in line. I would have given her a slice of sun-dried tomato and eggplant, but my stomach vetoed firmly.

Some days, it does feel like another hundred people get off the train, some to stare, some to stay (in my way, naturally). I walked toward the Babcock St stop on Wednesday about 30 minutes before work, knowing that the train was too far ahead for me to catch up. A long red light held it indefinitely, and hope against hope, I decided to run for it. When I just hit the caboose, the light recanted, and the T blazed onward. Did I remain in the dust and patiently wait it out? I have been indoctrinated into city values now: patience is a virtue only when it's warm. I cut across moving cars to signal a bus, which arrived like a godsend. If this was the ride to heaven, though, God's gonna run out of room. But we were moving rapidly, so I endured the zombied faces around me, who never bothered to move out of the way of even a pregnant woman exiting, and the pungent odors that come with public transportation. 

We passed the T I had missed around Boston U. Do I disembark and run for the train? I'll have to meet up with it at some point to get downtown. But in protest of the block-apart stops of the green B line, I continued to let the wheels go round and round. Another potential transfer point came, but I thought, we're almost at Kenmore. I might even make the T before the one I see.

The traffic light took nine minutes. Today, in comparison, it took two. Not only was the bus commune the smelliest but also the most dawdling. I race down the stairs, swipe my card through the turnstiles, and book it to the T... that I see pull away in front of me. A few minutes late; missing the T is always a viable excuse (if you don't overuse it). After an eternity, a T comes to save us, or so I think.

Instead, the driver announces with booming authority that this train will be taken out of service. The signs still read "Govt Center," and the masses inside are bemused. "Everyone off!" Two loaves of bread and fish could not have fed the multitudes that poured off the train, and all of them seemed to know each other. High schoolers, I overheard. Was this some twisted kind of field trip, exploring subterranean Boston? They were downright angry, as I would be if I had to share enclosed spaces with the lot of them. And I hadn't encountered so many racial epiphets since I'd read Huck Finn.

Next train comes; the herds pack in. I learn that the life of a sardine (really, the death of a sardine pre-consumption) is unbearably squished. That's when I hear from a girl literally beneath my armpit that they were deliberately evacuated from the train because they were being immature and pushing the buttons of both the T and the irate driver. I hate to stereotype, especially when we all poke at undergrads, but I'm now convinced that T licenses shouldn't be distributed until you can watch R-rated movies, buy cigarettes, and learn long words that don't begin with "mother."

We pull into the next stop, at Hynes, and more refugees stand on the platform like wayward immigrants rejected once they stepped off the boat. Sure enough, they're part of the same collective. I arrived at Emerson 45 minutes after my journey began.

Cities definitely bring out eccentricities. At New York Pizza last night, I swear a man told his woman (wife? mistress? "secretary"?) that she should get an abortion, just slipping it into conversation before immediately switching to the humdrum details of his perfunctory day. More outlandish, I found, was when his warm pastrami sandwich was delivered. The woman jumped up and hovered in the corner, saying she couldn't bear the smell of it. When he told her it was just cured beef, she looked incredulous. She consented to sit back down, but admonishing him the whole time, for the smell just wasn't right. I assume that she did not share the same public transportation this morning, or else that pastrami would smell like manna in comparison.

A Stranger in Paradise

We can count them on one hand: Bartok, Telemann, Hindemith. I'll wager Mozart, in duets and quintets, evinced some interest. But most top-notch composers never took a shine to the viola. Nested between the commanding cello section and the outcast second violins, violas slog through the machinations of the tormented, repeating their sixteen notes ad infinitum. If the melody ever passes their way, it's probably because the other strings grew bored with it. How can this hefty cousin to the violin unify its dark contralto C string and nasal A?

It's easy to engage in cocktail banter that descends toward viola jokes. Even violists chuckle, knowing that they become more reputable the more they put themselves down.

How brave of Hector Berlioz, then, to construct a symphonic travelogue, Harold in Italy, around the enigmatic viola. It acts as a lonesome spectator upon whom the surrounding orchestra refracts its jubilant, occasionally sainted grandeur. Standing in for "Harold," the soloist must feel apprehension. His playing steers away from sensuality, for other colors in the ensemble will carry that, but gaiety also eludes this vagabond. In the second movement, he appears as a wanderer lost among the peasants and the chimes of an abbey. Famished for notes to play, he feeds off their reverence and quietly, with little virtuosity, he is consigned to the countermelody. In a strange land, his task stays familiar.

Harold tours the countryside, the vineyards, the mountains, and just when the spark strikes him, he repeats his theme in the fourth movement, asserting his vitality before the villagers. There is something so earthy about his voice; his tones are not dulcet but burnished. Before he can enter the realm of the spiritual, however, his passport is revoked. The spectacles and sounds of Italy engulf and overpower their visitor, though not out of xenophobia. Italy's wonders reflect off the spectator, but he is merely the narrator who provides passage to these insights. In this symphony (and it is not a concerto), the viola must physically leave the stage in the fourth movement. His place, Berlioz asserts, is to acquiesce; he does not shine individually but as part of a collective endeavor.

But oh, for that rich lower register, the violins think, shocked out of their melody-centered world. For just half an hour, they also see a new world, built upon the inner voice and its capacity to see, from a distance, true visions.

And a hero doesn't come till the nick of time...

Last night I was in the presence of Stephen Sondheim, who was interviewed at Northeastern. There was this collective sense of awe that rippled through the crowd, and when he'd mention some of his shows, people would instantly applaud them. One girl cried when she asked him a question. Culture comes to Boston, and we reciprocate with enthusiasm.

First thing off: Sondheim fidgets a lot in his seat. I, who also cannot sit still, must be destined for greatness. He doesn't come across as senile at all, which is impressive when you're 78, and he's still writing music. He does, however, have this amusing old-man clap where he swings his arms out really far (in a "the fish was this big" way).

He talked about the upcoming revival of West Side Story, and how the Sharks will speak and sing in Spanish when they are angry or getting their rumble on. Spanish has this great passion and crispness, he said. Scores like Gypsy were quick to write because he knew exactly what performer he was writing for. One of the easiest songs he ever worked on was "Smile, Girls," which he wrote in a day with Jule Styne; naturally it was cut the next day from the show.

Anyone Can Whistle didn't work, he feels, because of its "smart-ass" writing. And so good reviews stayed at bay until Company. He began Follies much earlier than Company, but when Hal Prince decided to direct both, he insisted on Company first. Then came one of his biggest successes, A Little Night Music. The beauty of a song like "The Miller's Son," he said, is that Petra is the lifeforce of that show, avoiding the facades the others put up, which is why such a tertiary character gets the 11 o'clock number. One lady at intermission remarked that "A Weekend in the Country" was surprisingly hummable, and Sondheim replied, "yes, well you've just heard the chorus twelve times. Of course it's hummable."

No discussion of Sunday in the Park with George or Into the Woods. He does yearn to write another grand Romantic score like Sweeney Todd. That show was his love letter to London, he said -- and the first time, they hated it. Maybe the Brits can't reconcile love and cannibalism. He said Assassins, out of all his shows, most fulfills what he set out to accomplish. And though the moderator kept insisting that Passion is his most direct work, Sondheim didn't agree with that assessment, saying that he feels the score still functions on indirection. He said his music often has lots of "busy-ness" in the accompaniment because he composes on piano, which only sustains for so long; he doesn't often consider instruments like strings that could hold notes indefinitely, thus his piano copies are fairly note-driven.

Road Show, soon to open in New York, will be the final revision of what was Bounce. People asked why he'd worked on it for 14 years, and he replied that he was first took interest in the Mizner brothers in 1952. Sondheim is currently halfway through a book with his complete lyrics from Saturday Night on (next year's Christmas present?). If one can't always share the same physical space as Sondheim, this might be the next best thing.

And the walls come a-tumblin' down...

"This hole don't look big enough." Fantastic. At least our ceilings will (fingers, toes, eyes crossed) be fixed next week. And now the repairman got stuck in my bathroom.

Gmail usually places relevant links at the top of your inbox, like spam casserole recipes in the section of unloved e-mails. Today's, though, has no relevance to my e-mails or to fact: "Sarah Palin" is the headline, "www.good.is" is the link. Riddle me this, comrades.

Words that the Google spell check does not recognize: Gmail (really?); inbox; www. I understand outdated editions of Word doing this, but it's time to deal with the twenty-first century. Let's not even get into grammar check. It told me to substitute "It's" in the phrase "Its most recent issue." No wonder people get these two confused if their word processor doesn't know the difference. Please, people, turn off grammar check right now. Rip off the Band-Aid; learn participles and subject-verb agreement on your own. The world will be better off.

Which brings me back to the governor of Alaska. At the top of her lengthy entry on Wikipedia (also forsaken by spell check), it says "the neutrality of this article is disputed." Her page has 211 sources - that's more than Jesus gets.

Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho

They're about to drill a hole in my living room wall, aka the part of the wall that looks nice and doesn't need refurbishment. Thanks, leaky pipes. Of course, the pipes aren't leaking on my floor, just on the second floor. But they want to "see what's up." It's damp and gloomy outside now, so that probably won't help. Ah, there's the sound of drilling, from the apartment below. Nothing says rise-and-shine like overbearing machinery. Toss the roosters - this will ensure that everyone for miles around wakes up when you want.

Kalyn, by the way, I'm sorry I didn't write this last night. I know your waking up in the morning depends upon my blog. Don't kill yourself, please (that was last week's entry). If you need incentive to wake up still, I'll send you a drill that gnashes your walls to smithereens.

Oh, now we switch to the refreshing sound of hammering. Anyone heard that Ellen sketch? If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening... Once you get a hammer, you realize you don't hammer as much as you thought you would. Unless your job is to fix leaky pipes inside walls. Maybe they could install a cool trap door afterward; if they need to go back in, secret passage through the bookshelf!

We almost got a free piano from Craigslist. (Train of thought: I want a bookshelf; people don't give them away on Freecycle; people do give away pianos. Three degrees of separation. Kevin Bacon sold separately.) Someone came in before us to snatch it away. But now we need one to cover up our desecrated wall.

Don't it always seem to go?

I was inspired by tonight's reading, and the T I took back. Ergo...

The Ride Home

We're having a pah-ty, a woman crows
In an invented dialect of self-inclusion
Step right on,
We'll be moving in a moment,
Called out through unflattering microphone distortion
Three minutes, sixteen seconds,
And I await salvation from this seventh circle of lethargy
The moment has passed
Nobody's having a pah-ty

A Herculean ogre of man stoops to fit beneath the ceiling
His peppered hair obfuscates my destination
Red neon reads ST. MAR
My mind wades out to sea
And I'm enraptured by the crash of waves
Snap back - that's just the train tracks

We lurch, jump-start, and emerge from extinction
With the panic level of a Prozac devotee
Have you seen American Psycho?
Return to the world of the living
Same girl confesses, he's slightly odd
I like them slightly odd

Apartment windows kindle our journey from the abyss
This stop was requested, yet none depart
Our shuttle impervious shields us refugees
My neighbor scans stage directions
Lipstick for Pagliacci, speaks woman one
You aren't much different, homicidal lunatic lover
Passengers perform for a pinch-thrift public
While acting as if nobody is there
Come on, people now, smile on your non-gender-specific brother
Wait, that's my stop
Get the hell out of my way

Oxymoron. 1a. Microsoft Works

I've always felt good about spelling. But sometimes I get caught on words like "dicey." I tried to write "dicier" in a Word document, but the red underline appeared. Bill Gates doesn't have the widest lexicon, but I thought maybe I was the fool. I spelled out "dicey" just to be sure - no problems there. Mild vindication. "More dicey"? Aye, the abhorred grammar check. Right-click (cause I still got Windows) and what does it substitute? "Dicier." I make the change and move on. What, then, gives Word a conniption? "Dicier."

Dicing reminds me of "Dexter," which is rocking this season, and that reminds me of the bird now chirping at my sock. Dexter (the bird) has a thing about white socks. He looks so puzzled. Where'd the foot go? And will it come back? It's like when my grandfather used to steal my nose when I was younger. Cool and upsetting at the same time. What if he couldn't reattach it? Things couldn't have gotten much dicier than that.

Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen

Yesterday Kate and I laughed about the fact that suicide is a crime. Can you get arrested for attempting such a crime but not succeeding? Maybe you get a Capra-esque Clarence instead to guide you through a miserable world sans you. And where does the law stop? Are there statutes for, say, auto-assassination?

It's no joke, but it kept popping up these past two days. Someone made a suicide crack at game night, common when a game of Clue is afoot. This afternoon I read my first Redivider story - and it was hardcore - and discovered that suicide is the refuge for an author's inspiration. (Or just a refuge from life, as per David Foster Wallace.) I took a break to watch the first episode of "Huff," but the Grim Reaper followed. "What's it about?" Kate asks. That's when the teenager shoots himself in the mouth and blood flies on his therapist's walls. Slow-motion hides nothing. "My weekend," I reply.

So I take a break from taking a break. Back to Redivider; story two awaits. But it knows (they always know) what's on my mind. (Only the subject is on my mind - as Douglas Adams says, don't panic.) And it delivers. Yes, it's also about suicide. Thank goodness we had those symphony tickets for tonight, as a diversion from a series of unfortunate fictional events. The program? Mahler's Symphony No. 6, sometimes referred to as "Tragic."

Bit by bit, building up the image

Why in the second presidential debate - which I blew off for Gil Shaham's amazing performance of the Stravinsky violin concerto - are there still factual inaccuracies? You get off the podium and speak Directly To The Voters, but you're still twisting things around.

McCain, we'll start with you. You're not going to give $5000 to individuals like you said but to households. It's a big difference. This is like when Obama said in the first debate that 95% of the "American people" (whoever they are) will receive tax cuts. Same deal - 95% of families. The score: McCain -1, Obama -1.

McCain, you also said that Obama voted 94 times to increase taxes. Factcheck.org pointed out that at least 40 of these don't really count. That's a half-point docked. Oh, and offshore drilling will decrease the price of oil? Really? The sad thing is that people believe that. I'm taking away two points for being delusional.

If anyone knows where the number $700 billion came from, help me out. McCain says we're giving it to "countries who don't like us" - then be an Indian giver and take it back! Minus one for confusion. I feel like we're surprised our hands are gritty from playing in the sandbox.

And Obama, dude, you said in the first and the second debates that Iraqis have a $79 billion surplus. Their surplus is at least $30 billion, which is way lower but still sounds impressive. Can't we just trust the facts to be right? Two points off for repeating this one and not getting it right between debates.

Final score: McCain -4.5, Obama -3. Biden, +1 for correctly defining the word "maverick" for us all in clear, non-jingoist language. Please let us strike it from Webster's on November 5.

Steam Heat (aka The Dharma Bum)

A momentous thing happened today. True, I braved the 66 bus, not knowing entirely where I'd end up, but that's not this story. For some reason, I got up at least an hour earlier than usual. I awoke in the arctic tundra that has replaced my room, feet nearing hypothermia, and went to take a blessedly hot 20-minute shower. I step out, place my hand on the radiator - and it's warm. Yes, my captive audience of three, the heat arrived at 146 Coolidge Street today. Was it karma for not indulging in an extra hour of sleep? Is that what they call dharma? Ironically (take note, Alanis), what drove me out of bed on this unusual morning was not the heat but the usual frigidity. In my excitement, I slipped tea on the hardwood floor. The living room now smells of orange, pekoe, and warmth.

I come home from the symphony tonight to find myself sunbathing ten minutes later. We have reached the oasis of Boston, and it is good. If I complain that my apartment is too warm, please slap me across the face with a halibut. Preferably dead - I don't promote animal cruelty.

Do any of you meat eaters find it difficult to express your views to the face of vegetarians? Or worse, the (shudder) vegans. "Survival of the fittest": there's one choice phrase. "I need the protein to gain weight": not many people say that, so it buys me stalling time. But what about animal rights? Lots of veggie-ers consume fish, but it seems we are just as cruel to them by, you know, killing them, slicing them open, throwing them on a grill, serving them as lox on a bagel. Don't get me started on the people who are against veal.

Maybe they don't mind being cooked. I am currently roasting and loving it, just like McDonald's does. (What does scare me is the meat that isn't, served by restaurants that aren't like MickeyD's. What were McNuggets made of before they used all-white meat?)

A Month Since My Last Confession

My first sin: I have started a blog. My second sin: I have sucked you into reading it.

How's Boston, you ask? I'll get there. This will hopefully (yes, that is correctly used) serve as a source of stimulation and conversation. You must reply if you are reading. If you were too busy to reply, you wouldn't be reading.

Before the soul-searching, I decided to open with two poems that I wrote in the last month, one of which I admire much more than the other. Surrounded by MFAs, I feel that I must contribute to the literary world when I get a chance.

7:41
On the sill sits a fan.
Mine or hers; doesn't matter either way.

Its leaves rustle with the fingers of dusk,
teased by motorcycles riding on the air.
Lamplight frees itself from the confines of this room
and soars down the block,
splintered by coathanger branches up high.
As the streetlamp melds to the curb,
sight picks up the radio transmission.
Its call, "walk this way," repeats
until a Buick passes, hustling its amigo down the road.

Cerulean heaven takes on an icy green,
but the voices pervade,
swirling around the lamppost,
sectored by the windowscreen,
and caressing the still fan.
It perches, waiting to be turned on,
though it rustles sans breeze,
without my hand coming near.


Afternoon Forecast

Sirens overpower the nasal hum of indoor cooling.
My skin prickles, like it did
Throttled vowels in a low masculine voice coast across the floorboards.
Papier mache walls betray our secrets.
What they say, I can't be sure.
What you said, I can't
The sun seizes me from slumber, thrusting upon me through smudged glass panes.
Sleep comes calling for some of
I brace myself to look down into the alley,
Where trash-can lids play checkers with desperate vagabonds.
A city bus docks at the curb, narrowly missing a pedestrian.
What a gift, to be spared
Kaleidoscopes dance on my retinas, courtesy of the glare.
I can't see, though I can.
Another layer of urban haze frosts my awareness.
You can't see at
And this gloom appears as the February mist,
When we sat on that pier and chortled until we
Red light dissolves into green.
The pride of variegated lions crosses the street.
We were fierce together,
And now we're at stalemate when we are
I'm unaware of the clouds, sweeping in as white noise.
Shouldn't the mere presence of the sun,
In brief flickers,
Be enough?

There they are. I am self-published. Give me my degree this minute!