tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69656537910715008442024-03-05T03:07:56.168-05:00The Boston RagTell all your buddies that it ain't no drag.Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-12294989825939518982022-10-25T23:20:00.007-04:002022-10-25T23:20:59.914-04:00Wanna have a catch?<p> SO the topic of Ray Kinsella's father came up.</p><p>I loved Field of Dreams from the moment I first saw it. As an idea, as a look at things lost and things found. The story was wholly original, and in some ways almost corny.</p><p>But wow, it still works. What's wild to me now is how different my life is than it was 33(!) years ago. I'm nowhere near the same person I was in 1989. But the movie is the same. </p><p>There always seems to be a fabled quality to baseball movies. M shared the idea that most everything you do in baseball is failure. The greatest hitters since antiquity have never attained a .400 batting average. Which means 60 percent failure is ... unquestionably the best player in baseball history.</p><p>Statistically every time you go to the plate you know you're going to make an out. That's the most common outcome.</p><p>I keep thinking about this.</p>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-18486578869990741002020-12-25T09:10:00.001-05:002020-12-25T09:10:11.344-05:00Christmas 2020<p>So it's just weird this year. No one's going to miss 2020.</p><p>In Boston there is a rainstorm, high winds, and temperatures near 60. That's incomprehensible except in the context of (lol) everything else this year.</p><p>The sabotage of the USPS means a lot of gifts didn't make it on time. I'm still waiting. I feel for parents having to deal with this. I feel for people worried about making ends meet. I'm luckier than a lot of people, even though I have actually already spent roughly an hour doing work duties. </p><p>Sigh.</p><p>The holidays are notoriously difficult for people anyway; it's easy to get blue. Last night the streets were eerily quiet. Stores are closed, but no one is traveling ... at times like this, the noise abates and that "monkey brain" can get to prattling. You can only outrun your thoughts for so long.</p><p>So most won't see family this year, which is sad. And many think of the family they'll never see. Christmas in America is a memory factory. It's a conditioned response.</p><p>My mother loved Christmas. She went all-out for it every year. Decorating the house. Special dishes just for the season. Insane amounts of gifts. She was born in rural poverty in the 30s so when she got to a stage in life where she could blow it out, she did. It was charming and came from the right place.</p><p>My dad was probably even more disadvantaged as a child. He didn't respond to that the same way as my mom. An interesting psychological study no doubt.</p><p>My brother, once we grew up and branched out, we grew apart. I have great Christmas memories spent with him, because when we were kids at some point it became an annual tradition to fly to Michigan on or around Christmas Day to spend a week visiting my late crazy aunt. Those trips in a lot of ways became the best Christmas gift of all because of the amazing adventures we had experiencing a week of winter activities in a foreign land.</p><p>An example: ice skating on a frozen pond, followed by a trip to a cider mill. Exquisite.</p><p>All memories now, though. Those people are almost all gone. So it's natural to be a wee bit wistful about it.</p><p>Don't get me wrong, I'm not sad today. Wistful is indeed the right word. I've been not only blessed to have those memories but blessed to have new ones... it's literally all (or at least mostly) good ...</p><p>One of my favorite Christmas songs ... and the tears are now falling as I look at the lyrics ... is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" ...</p><p style="text-align: center;">"<span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Through the years w</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">e all will be together</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">If the fates allow</span></p><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">So hang a shining star upon the highest bough</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And have yourself a merry little Christmas now"</span></div><p>No one really knows where our lost people go, or if they go anywhere at all. But today let them all be together in your mind, and in your heart. That's the real gift.</p><p><br /></p></div>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-16429308547691362262020-11-03T00:54:00.000-05:002020-11-03T00:54:05.551-05:0012:18 am EST 3 Nov 2020<p>If you're like me Christmas has a specific feel to it that often hits on Christmas Eve ... it really must be what it's like to be in the eye of a big storm.</p><p>There's been all this buildup and finally, at last, here we are ... the momentum toward the main event is now right before us. Nothing can stop it, but here's an all too brief respite ... likely no more than a few hours, max. </p><p>At Christmas, the excitement and rush of it has worn off like any other high. It's usually around this time of day. The world has fallen quiet, as if enveloped in a snowfall. </p><p>Sometimes you can get introspective about this time. It should be a joyous occasion but instead it can feel joyless, maybe a little artificial, and in that horrible moment, despair pulls at you.</p><p>I feel like that a little right now. Technically, it's Election Day 2020. </p><p>But there hasn't been a joyful buildup to this day as if it were a celebrated American Holiday. Nope, it's been a grind, a literal death march for closing in on a quarter-million of us. Lies, cheating, deceit, banality, selling out to (not even!) the highest bidder(s) ... encouraging and feeding trolls. Sleeping with the enemies. And now a deadly disease. That's the "pre-game" before Election Day 2020.</p><p>So now it's here, and I was one of the 100 million who already voted. About 130 million total voted four years ago. Apparently on the way to record turnout, not including the untold number who will be disenfranchised by the efforts of the GOP through degrading the USPS, eliminating polling sites, throwing people off voting rolls, gerrymandering, intimidation ...</p><p>Christmas: Happy, excited buildup.</p><p>Election Day 2020: Almost four years of dread; pestilence; famine ... that's the buildup.</p><p>And now we're in the "wait for it" part of the proceedings.</p><p>So when we ultimately theoretically fall into an unreliable slumber tonight, what will we wake up to?</p><p>That question makes me not want to sleep.</p><p>***</p><p>For a lot of today (yesterday) I felt cautiously optimistic. But I also remember that I don't bet on sports teams I like. Because subjectivity hurts your objectivity. It's much harder to keep a clear head when you have an emotional attachment to something. </p><p>This is why you haven't thrown out that Penn State sweatshirt.</p><p>But still: The polling looks good. The numbers have been steady, and they say the same thing -- it's gonna be a blue wave today.</p><p>Yeah, like they said four years ago.</p><p>***</p><p>It's like we're all passengers in a car piloted by a drunk driver. Death is one possible outcome. Being terrified is guaranteed.</p><p>***</p><p>After that guilty, thirsty liaison with hope I waded through typical WFH problems as the evening unfolded. </p><p>I hate the time change, despite that cheat-code extra hour on Day 1, because at 4 p.m. you're in darkness. It just pounces. </p><p>You find yourself restless ... needing to do certain things but unfocused, barely together at all ... what should take 2 minutes takes 5; what should take 25 minutes takes 2 hours ... and everything could be impossible so does it even matter where to start?</p><p>I worked out for 20 minutes. Checked in on work. Washed the dishes. Checked in. Let the dogs out. Checked in.</p><p>Just bouncing from task to task ... running, really. Do not let your mind sit with the heavy weight of this moment, now 29 minutes nearer to ... what?</p><p>What?</p><p>***</p><p>I've been lucky to live in this time, because there are some things that to me seem immortal, and I experienced life alongside these histories, good and bad ... </p><p>But the Trump years have been too much. We are corroded from where we were. We are not better. We are hateful, divided, and some people are scary stupid. We need it to be over.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-79625310558570359072019-03-13T00:12:00.001-04:002019-03-13T00:12:27.609-04:00WritingMust. Do. More. Writing.<br />
<br />
I obviously haven't been doing that. I think I've been lost in the desert somewhat. Trying to find my bearings. I have to say the last couple of years have been the most strange.<br />
<br />
So maybe writing will help me break some of this confusion down. It feels so foreign right now. Like trying to speak Sanskrit or something else super difficult.Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-76736169017976871132017-10-02T17:09:00.006-04:002017-10-02T17:15:23.448-04:00Something Big<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61tr2-oeKRL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61tr2-oeKRL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, Oct. 2, 2017, is a shit day.<br />
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I'm sick. So sick I didn't go to work. I went to sleep last night about 10.</div>
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Sleep was awful. I woke up at 5:20 and checked my phone. Saw the alerts about Las Vegas. I'm officially tired of all this winning.</div>
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And now we learn Tom Petty has died.</div>
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***</div>
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Almost exactly 36 years ago -- Sept. 23, 1981 -- I saw Petty at Reunion Arena in Dallas with my brother and one of my best friends. It was a great show.</div>
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The concert was six hours away from our college town. We drove in that Wednesday, saw the show, came back the next day. Killed Chuck's car on the return trip, a hilarious story in its own right.</div>
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The next day, four of us were in another car, headed for Jackson, Miss., via New Orleans. Steed's car had only one cassette in it ... "Damn The Torpedoes." We wore it out.</div>
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***</div>
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I'm kind of burying the lede here. "The Waiting" is a song that literally changed my life.</div>
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When I met M, we were living a country apart. As we fell for each other -- and yes, I know this is cheesy, but bear with -- we did typical young couple things, like have touchstones.</div>
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One was Tom Petty's "The Waiting." Because when you're in a long-distance relationship, there's a lot of waiting. The song fit our situation. (BTW: We have two coffee mugs now with lyrics from this song on them.)</div>
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When we finally met face-to-face, it was fraught with tension. What if it didn't work?</div>
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It seemed like it might not.</div>
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We got into an argument. To blow off steam, she was on roller blades, I was on my bike, and we rode along the beach. Together, but apart. (This is my interpretation, maybe hers is different.) There was a lot of concern. It didn't seem like we were going to be able to accomplish this massive thing of our relationship. We lived 3,000 miles apart. There was the age thing. Different -- WILDLY different -- backgrounds.</div>
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We stopped for a moment, at Redondo Pier. Frustrated. Pessimistic.</div>
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***</div>
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Music is a soundtrack. I think all of us have songs that take us back to certain times, situations.</div>
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There were some shit bars at the pier. One of them had a live band. In the distance, we heard them play the opening notes of "The Waiting."</div>
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I'll never forget the look on M's face when that happened. Never.</div>
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It was kind of an epiphany. The story's so corny no one would ever pitch it to a Hollywood studio. But it really happened.</div>
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***</div>
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We were in LA and wanted to catch a show of his at the Hollywood Bowl. We drove right by it as the show got going but decided not to go. They were in Boston a couple of months ago and we passed again. Regrettable. My brother saw him a few months back, said it was a great show.</div>
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Thanks for everything, Tom.</div>
Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-87724628064958066862017-09-25T12:09:00.000-04:002017-09-25T12:45:53.085-04:00My Old SchoolWell, I guess it was time.<br />
<br />
I hadn't been to a HS reunion before. Got close once: For the 10th, I'd pledged to go with one of my oldest friends. The day before, we scouted the location in case we wanted to make a quick escape. I'm not kidding ... we went to the hotel ballroom where it was going to be held, found all the exits in case we needed to high-tail it outta there.<br />
<br />
The day of, we were on the way over. I remember it exactly. We were at a stoplight overlooking White Rock at Mockingbird and Buckner. I looked over at D, and we just knew.<br />
<br />
His HS experience was worse than mine, apparently. When I was in HS I was on a varsity athletic team, involved in some student organizations, was on the newspaper staff ... I didn't feel like I was one of the "cool" kids but also didn't feel I was with the outcasts. I liked having a foot in both worlds but identified less with the popular people.<br />
<br />
I had typical HS-age issues. Was more unsure than sure, used occasional bravado to mask the insecurities. But never really felt like I was "special" or one of the Chosen Ones. Honestly, I just felt like I was an unremarkable person then.<br />
<br />
So it took me a while to feel like I could expose myself to that again. But, at this stage in life, what did that matter? That was a long time ago.<br />
<br />
I asked D to go and was a little surprised he opted out. Maybe I should have? But enough of those old acquaintances that I gave a damn about wanted me to go, so go I went.<br />
<br />
It was harder than I thought it would be. There were a handful of people I wanted to see, but barely 15 percent of my graduating class showed up. Our senior class was big, so honestly, some of those people I just didn't remember ... not because they weren't good people, it's just impossible to have relationships with almost 1,000 people.<br />
<br />
Additionally ... time the avenger. I didn't recognize a lot of people. Most people, in fact. And for me, I felt it would be awkward and invasive to walk up to folks, peer at the sticker with their name affixed to their chest, and say ... what?<br />
<br />
"Nope, don't remember you." I think that would be uncomfortable for them as well as for me. I would never willingly make someone feel uncomfortable in that setting.<br />
<br />
"Wait, *you're* so-and-so? When did you get so ... bald?"<br />
<br />
Now, I would never say that, but ... after the event, I saw some posts IDing people and they were completely unrecognizable. I'm sure I was too ... I don't have that "David Cassidy" hair I used to have, but I do have an additional hundred pounds. Anybody want some?<br />
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I'm also an odd duck compared to the majority of people from back there as far as their political views. I consider myself left of center, but not "crazy librul" because to me wanting equality and peace aren't crazy ideas.<br />
<br />
There was one guy there who is a stone RWNJ. He just is. I avoided him as much as I could but he veered close to our table once and I just wanted the seconds to elapse swiftly so it would be over. The political world is so fraught right now, I welcomed the idea of a few hours away from that.<br />
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But honestly, I just didn't know what to do. One guy I wasn't super close with, but lived nearby, I knew him a long time, and we were on the team together and we sweated together, bled together, shared that special camaraderie of a team ... I ventured to engage with him, and after less than two minutes of small talk, he was done with me and basically turned his back. He couldn't even feign interest in learning anything about what time had wrought.<br />
<br />
It was disappointing, though not entirely surprising. He was always kind of aloof and an odd duck, but it was almost like memories of a cold and distant relative ... couldn't you put aside your ego for a moment? Nope. He wanted to go back to his Circle of Adulation, where there were willing supplicants.<br />
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It kind of triggered me a little, I think. All those old HS-era fears and longing for approval flicked me upside the head.<br />
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It had happened with another teammate about 15 or so years ago. This person had become a coach and I was covering their game. Afterward I approached him but stood a respectful distance away while he spoke to someone else. We made eye contact and maybe he didn't recognize me, but as the minutes ticked away and glances were exchanged, it seemed he just had no interest in reconnecting. He never motioned me over. I left.<br />
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I've thought back on that and on the weekend: Should I have been more bold in seeking out people? Perhaps, although the original issues remain. To me it is respectful to give people the space they may want to approach a middle ground. I simply will not force myself on someone.<br />
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I was fortunate to be able to visit with a few people who meant a lot to me then; although I wished I could have spent more time with them. They were able to navigate this situation much better than I did. I envy that. They were able to circulate and dive into it, I guess. I didn't really know how.<br />
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I carry a great sadness about all of this. We all just want to be accepted. Despite my running in some "in-crowd" circles in HS, I felt that was someone else's perception. I didn't play football to sit at the front of the auditorium at pep rallies ... I played because I loved the game. I wasn't that great at it; I was a lot better playing on the front green at Gaston than I was on the field at Forester.<br />
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I wasn't on newspaper to see my name in print, I was on it because I loved journalism, as more than 25 years in this cursed business will painfully attest.<br />
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There was a slide show during the event showing old images from the neighborhood and yearbooks. It was a delight to see those fresh young people so full of life and so ... hopeful. But that experience wasn't everyone's. It wasn't D's experience, and truthfully, it wasn't always mine. And it's possible it wasn't those of the more than 80 percent who didn't show up. It wasn't always a happy time. A lot of people grappled with the stereotypical worries and tribulations of being a teenager. Am I OK?<br />
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It's an enduring question. Sometimes it's still a concern.Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-57826068660680862262017-01-15T14:27:00.002-05:002017-01-15T14:27:43.068-05:00What's newI haven't written since mom died. I mean to. I want to. It's just very hard to do it. She was my staunchest advocate her whole life. Missing her is the hardest thing I've ever had to overcome.<br />
<br />
Something interesting happened during this time. The day she died, someone sent me a letter. It has opened a door to a part of my life that now will be explored. There will likely be more about this at some point as well.<br />
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Beyond the personal, I've felt a great deal of worry and concern about our collective fate given that we all now are apparently under the control of Vladimir Putin. That doesn't seem a situation that will end well.<br />
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Seriously: I just hope we all live through it.<br />
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Sigh.<br />
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Life is a crazy beautiful mess. It saddens me there are people who don't accept this and instead are motivated by greed, fear, hatred, shallowness and many other strange behaviors that are inherently inhuman. Some people don't want to see to it that other people have a fair shake. Never thought that'd be the predominant thought in this country. The country has an ugly side I thought we were growing away from. But enough, with the aid of selfish political ideologues, foreign intermediaries, traitorous government representatives and just a dash of dumbasses, have managed to hijack the country.<br />
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And I don't think anyone can fly the plane.Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-30372295494142528742016-10-26T00:17:00.001-04:002016-10-26T00:17:02.860-04:00No no no no no no no no noNo no no no.<div>
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I can't stop what's happening. No one can. It's going to hurt.</div>
Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-1931020797855036922016-10-07T02:21:00.000-04:002016-10-07T02:21:05.657-04:00PerspectiveIt's always worth having.<br />
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Life is still a work in progress. I learn something every day. I've changed, I'm better. But still far away from what I should be.<br />
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It's almost 2 a.m. on an early fall Friday. I feel like we live somewhat falsely sometimes. You're one person at work, one person with your people ... another person with yourself. And being compartmentalized like that means no one sees the "full you." Perhaps you don't even show yourself?<br />
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Why?<br />
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Fear is one of the worst concepts. It's one reason why old-time religion bothered me: I don't want to be "God-fearing" because I don't want to think of God as something to be feared. We have too much fear and worry.<br />
<br />
I read a story tonight about a young man who drove recklessly and killed a 8-year-old girl who was riding her bicycle. Her cousin, 12, was injured. They were playing in the street during a summer birthday party; many family members saw the children run down and the driver flee the scene.<br />
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The survivor had a concussion, a broken leg, and severe trauma. The family is emotionally devastated.<br />
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The driver entered a guilty plea today and will receive sentencing a few hours from now. It's expected he'll actually catch a break, earning perhaps a 10-year sentence. That seems a little light given the loss, despite his shows of remorse.<br />
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Everyone in that story is way worse off than I am. So here's my perspective:<br />
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* People are going to be selfish sometimes -- just like I am. I should probably just try and deal with it and rise above.<br />
* Stop whining about stupid things in your life. Is some situation *really* egregious? It's probably not. And it's certainly not like the tragedy with that little girl's family. So maybe my problems are inconsequential.<br />
* Just ... chill. This is easier said than done. But, you have to find a peace with yourself. You need to be better at some things? Then do it. You can't miracle your ass up there.<br />
<br />Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-57515477449821456362016-08-19T13:36:00.003-04:002016-08-19T13:36:44.434-04:00Found in TranslationI was born in Texas in 1959.<br />
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Sometimes I think about what that world must have been like. It was just 14 years after the end of WWII, less than 20 years before it all started.<br />
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The "enemy" then was communism, but there were plenty of nearby "enemies." The language I grew up around was vile, but I didn't know that at the time. It was taught.<br />
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I heard black people called the following: Niggers. Coons. Jigaboos. Negros. Colored People.<br />
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I heard Hispanic people called the following: Wetbacks. Spics. Greasers. Mexicans.<br />
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I heard Asians called the following: Chinks. Gooks. Slanties.<br />
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I heard gay people called the following: Homos. Fags/Faggots. Queers.<br />
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I heard women called the following: Bitches. Cunts. Whores. Sluts. Broads.<br />
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One of today's big enemies are Muslims. They weren't then high on the "hated" hierarchy, but there were still some epithets allocated: Ragheads. Arabs. Camel jockeys. Sand niggers.<br />
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The worst thing I ever heard about white people was "rednecks." Later, cracker came along, or honky. None of those seemed as remotely offensive as what the previous ones were.<br />
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I think about these poisons that were casually placed around my existence as a child, and it saddens me, but it also makes me deeply ashamed that this racism and hate was so prevalent and relatively unchallenged.<br />
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And I think about these vulgarities in the context of a man who wants to "Make America Great Again." Great for who?<br />
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I remember watching news footage of blacks being chased down the streets by angry mobs -- some of whom were law enforcement. Beaten. Assaulted by dogs. Spat upon. Murdered. Do blacks want that "Great America" again? No.<br />
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I remember Hispanics grouped as only "Mexicans" (I was in Texas) and characterized as mooches who were only good for menial jobs in fields, restaurant kitchens, or yardwork (charitably characterized as "gardening"). One presidential candidate broadly characterizes these people as "rapists."<br />
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When I look back at all that rampant ugliness, I think about the people in my life now, some of whom didn't have those horrible things on easy display. Do I want my black friends to live in a world where those things are back in vogue? Of course not. But their struggle isn't even over. Despite a black president, blacks are gunned down by whites on a daily basis. Urban blacks are born into worlds where the odds are stacked against them in the womb. Economic disparity favors white men, substantially.<br />
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As bad as things are now, it was worse then. "Make America Great Again?" This is as good for so-called "minorities" as it's ever been. No one wants to go back a single day.<br />
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Gays can get married in 50 states. It used to be that coming out of the closet marginalized these people who were only guilty of following their hearts and nature. Homophobia, like racism, is alive and well. But at least today, these communities have gotten to share at least a little of America's promise. Do they want to go back? Only if they're given the same respect and rights as white men have always had.<br />
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One presidential candidate doesn't want to share those dignities with them. His campaign slogan can be translated as this: "When I was a young white boy, niggers/spics/gooks/fags/bitches/ragheads knew their place, and it was behind us. We were the bosses. Make America Great Again."<br />
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I thought he was going to be usurped at the RNC, and replaced by Mitt -- who might have won. Thank the old gods and the new gods that the racists at the controls let it play out so that their demagogue could be put at the top of their ticket. Because their dark heart has now been exposed.<br />
<br />
But the fight isn't ever. I don't like the two-party system and hope for its ruination, but in 2016, this is the hand we've been dealt. And there's only one way to play it.<br />
<br />
America's always been great. It's why we've made the progress we have. The next step is to give women more of a say in how this country is run. Ann Richards, Wendy Davis, Amy Klobuchar, Gabby Giffords before (sadly), Liz Warren would be great leaders.<br />
<br />
Hillary Clinton isn't the best choice -- but in 2016, she's the only choice. Keep America Great.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-47893780259747930202016-04-22T00:10:00.000-04:002016-04-22T00:10:07.908-04:00Me & PrinceMTV first let me know who this weird guy with the androgynous look and the badass guitar-playing was.<div>
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"Controversy" was the song, and it was in heavy rotation back in the early days of MTV.</div>
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I was instantly a fan. I remember telling someone during my brief time as a college radio DJ that Prince would be a much bigger star than Michael Jackson.</div>
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Commercially, that didn't turn out to be the case. Prince sold more than 100 million albums, the King of Pop more than 7 times that.</div>
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I don't care. To me, Prince was always better than Jackson. He was a great musician, a great singer, and wrote incredible songs.</div>
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Michael Jackson was a great singer and performer. End of story.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Prince was prolific, but I didn't really follow his career after 1990. I don't know why that was. At one time I owned most of his stuff; 8 albums. That turned out to be not even a fifth of his career portfolio.</div>
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<div>
To me, Prince's best release was probably "Sign o' the Times" -- most people will pick "Purple Rain" and that's a good argument, as is "1999."</div>
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<div>
I first heard Purple Rain not long after it was released in late June of 1984. I was living in Midland, Texas. I was 25.</div>
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25.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, Midland was (probably still is) a racially divided town in those days, and the black folks had their side of town, and the Mexicans theirs, and ...</div>
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<div>
I worked with a guy named Wendell Smith. Absolute great guy. Crazy to think his infant daughter is now an adult.</div>
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<div>
Wendell was a baller, and I played a lot in those days. (25). I was lucky enough to get an invitation to play in his "Sunday League" -- his brothers and friends played pickup games all Sunday afternoon in the back yard of his mother's house.</div>
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The court was hard, packed West Texas dirt. The uneven rims were supported by wobbly posts and sported homemade plywood backboards. And ... pretty sure they weren't 10 feet. And totally sure they were of different heights independently. Not exactly regulation.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It was like going to heaven. Purifying.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
So Wendell lets me come play. I'm super excited, because these guys were fun, and they were GOOD. Wendell was a gunner. His younger brother was kind of an animal on the boards.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
He's the one who brought a boom box (so 80s!) out as we warmed up. That yard was baking under a summer sun but we were young bucks in those days and loved it. He popped in a cassette (!) of "Purple Rain." The movie came out a month later.</div>
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This day was well over 30 years ago, and I'll always remember it. The music, playing ball, the sun.</div>
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<div>
I was young and pretty. Prince was cool ... and hot. Life stretched out ahead like an endless highway.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
That last two memories of Prince are his weird set a year or so ago on a Chris Rock-hosted SNL. Because Prince, he was allowed to subvert the typical two-song (one before Update, one at about 12:45 a.m.) show standard. Instead he played an odd, four-song continuous medley that wasn't musically memorable but was ... Prince doing Prince things.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And I remember his epic performance at halftime of the 2007 Super Bowl. Singing "Purple Rain" as it poured down was unforgettable.</div>
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Prince is gone at 57. Farewell, sweet Prince.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-38360405745311788632015-09-12T06:56:00.002-04:002015-09-12T06:57:11.351-04:00MShe's asleep now. She works so hard, and does so much.<br />
<br />
Today I got up with the dogs. She doesn't get to sleep in often.<br />
<br />
When we happened on that website, talking hockey ... of course, we couldn't know so much was ahead.<br />
<br />
A spirited chat became an email exchange became phone numbers became hey what's going on here became ... everything.<br />
<br />
Ten years ago today, the rest of the world had to acknowledge it.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
If I've learned anything this past year, I've learned you have to kind of grab your own destiny as best you can, then hang on while life and reality buffets you about. Honey Badger don't care. Dad's gone. Mom is still here.<br />
<br />
So are we. It hasn't always been easy. But it's always been worth fighting for.<br />
<br />
Happy anniversary, M.<br />
<br />Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-74669138477682928122015-07-22T12:05:00.001-04:002015-07-22T12:05:48.224-04:00Meathead MomentHeading west on Summer Street, the street becomes one-way at Kingston, so you've got to turn left there.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the mornings — actually, almost all the time — that intersection is clogged with pedestrians. Cars turning left must hope there are limited jaywalkers, because this is Boston, and fuck you, and so they go when they want.</div>
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<div>
Today I began to wedge through. A meathead mashed his beefy hook against my car.</div>
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I've had it with this shit from these people. Crammed on the brakes. As I got out, Meat was there to greet me. I think he may have been a little surprised that I was at least 8 inches taller than he was.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Our "discussion"consisted of him telling me he had the right-of-way. (From the state's RMV <a href="https://www.massrmv.com/rmv/dmanual/chapter_4.pdf" target="_blank">handbook</a>: "Pedestrians must obey white and orange DON’T WALK and WALK signals.")</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He cocked his right arm as if he was going to punch me. I hope it unnerved him I didn't flinch. Plus, he was so close to me and the car, he couldn't have gotten much behind it. My argument consisted of "Dude, you know you're wrong."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Which, he seemed to be stupid, so he probably DIDN'T know, but, he continued to maintain that he had the right-of-way. After 20-30 seconds of this, I lifted my left hand to push him back a bit. He grabbed my Boston Marathon hat off my head (team spirit!) and hurled it into Summer Street, then hied his ass east.</div>
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I sent him on his way with the words "Boston Strong, asshole!" and that was the end of the story. Since I was blocking an intersection, I didn't go fetch the hat. A shame; I liked that hat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
This is a highly representative example, in my experience, of the Boston meathead. This place is thickly settled with them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Also: As with so many other things in this enlightened state, the <a href="http://www.mass.gov/courts/selfhelp/tickets/jaywalking.html" target="_blank">fine for jaywalking</a> is laughably stupid. It's ... one dollar. Two, after a fourth offense in a year. Hell, they don't even take away your walker's license.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, this may have been a "straw" moment. I've set a deadline of end of summer 2017 to leave this place. Life's too short to be surrounded by these cretins.</div>
Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-31845673597277105732015-06-26T14:04:00.001-04:002016-05-13T15:32:35.077-04:00Chuck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17HvWH26-jXkJ4lxhG6FZlY0kB5tsOY1Yc0uFmJzto3tHZ99_T4Hv0wphEvL_IEhnksYJsQ0qGSpuhT4N9Kif3LM0FzCb4u7SLHvqy9tK_duf_WIeGNAoq225DkbwnJFLtW0Yi5WAR4Mx/s1600/10272752_837764182918510_7308793179297485740_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17HvWH26-jXkJ4lxhG6FZlY0kB5tsOY1Yc0uFmJzto3tHZ99_T4Hv0wphEvL_IEhnksYJsQ0qGSpuhT4N9Kif3LM0FzCb4u7SLHvqy9tK_duf_WIeGNAoq225DkbwnJFLtW0Yi5WAR4Mx/s400/10272752_837764182918510_7308793179297485740_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The only person who ever called my dad "Charles" was his mother.<br />
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She's been dead for more than 40 years, but if there's an afterlife, I imagine he's being called "Charles" again today.</div>
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Dad's probably also playing golf, drinking beer, singing country songs and telling bad jokes.</div>
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And laughing. The man liked to laugh.</div>
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***</div>
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So when someone's heading for death, you accept it, but when it happens it's still hard.</div>
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I went to Lubbock last month to say goodbye. I told him I'd be back to watch Texas Tech play Arkansas in September, but I had my doubts about whether I'd actually be making that trip.</div>
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When my brother called yesterday, I felt it.</div>
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I know this is hokey, but it happened. I woke up at 5 a.m. yesterday morning after dreaming a weird dream about my dad. Dad did some ... idiosyncratic things. So this dream, while a bit bizarre, was also somewhat plausible.</div>
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It was set somewhere out west, maybe in Texas, but someplace flat and open. He did like his plains.</div>
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I will always think of him driving an ugly-ass van, like an Aerostar, although I think it was actually a Chevy. In the dream he was in an ugly-ass SUV, like OJ's Bronco.</div>
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The back end was open and he was handing me brown paper bags of random things. Like... useless things. I remember one seeming to have moldy celery stalks. I kind of shook my head in the dream, like "Really, dad?" But he handed 'em to me and I put them in my car.</div>
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The sky looked wide open to the west. We were in a parking lot by a highway.</div>
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Have at it, interpreters. It seems pretty obvious.</div>
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When I woke up, I thought "Oh man, this isn't one of those 'omen' dreams, is it?"</div>
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***</div>
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Driving to work on the Pike after I got the news, there was a semi truck headed west with big green letters on white siding: MIDLAND.</div>
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OK.</div>
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***</div>
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When Curtis told me, I had a shiver run through my body. It wasn't a literal shivering sensation, and it wasn't cold. But it was ... something. I felt it.</div>
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***</div>
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I took the news pretty well, and the only time I really got shook was when I told Bailey.</div>
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Me and my dad had some issues, and I've feared similar connectedness issues developing with her. Without getting into too much detail about the troubled, estranged relationships divorced dads can have with their children, I'll just say I wanted to be more present in Bailey's life.</div>
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Which was made difficult by moving away, twice. The first time, I was chasing something unidentified. I think I was kind of running away. Fortunately I figured out that was not the best idea, but the second time I had to move away.</div>
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It was the right play in the big picture, but hard on us. I could have handled it better, and I wish I'd had more support, but I didn't. Since I was the adult, I have to bear that.</div>
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But today, our relationship has been improving for some time, and I'm thrilled about that.</div>
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In a way, it got stronger today. I didn't know how to talk to her about this. Her and my dad weren't super close, but still...</div>
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Anyway, I got choked up, she got choked up... the elephant in the room is that people move out of the earthly plane, and some day she'll be the one making the calls.</div>
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I don't want that to happen, obviously, for a very long time.</div>
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***</div>
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<div>
My mom and dad split when I was five. I barely remember their life together.<br />
<br />
Now, his history as I know it...<br />
<br />
He was born in BFOklahoma on Dec. 20, 1933. The first child of Beulah and some guy named Castleberry. (Yeah, it's complicated. Bear with... ) Beulah was a simple woman, from what I'm told she was something of an "old maid" when she got married. I remember she went to Church of Christ and was apparently a zealot, believing that worshipers at other churches were doomed to Hell.<br />
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She liked to watch pro wrestling on TV. She baked delicious homemade bread and apple butter. She was a sweet old woman who seemed to have no life outside of church and family.<br />
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My dad would go on to have two brothers and two sisters. The youngest was Ronnie. And he was the first to go. When Ronnie died, the family went to Cordell, Okla., to bury him. It was the first time I had been there in almost 30 years, since we buried Beulah around Thanksgiving in 1973.<br />
<br />
Dad and his sibs wanted to reminisce. Cordell is frozen in time; nothing changes. We drove to an area that was sparsely occupied and walked down a road in an almost empty field. We passed a dilapidated old barn. My dad revealed that to the best of his knowledge ... he was born there.<br />
<br />
Born. In. A. Barn.<br />
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In the Depression. In Oklahoma.<br />
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I don't know much about his childhood other than to know it can't have been all rosy. Shortly before he turned 8 came the Day of Infamy.<br />
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As the story was told to me, sometime in 1946 or 1947, his father told Beulah he was going to Oklahoma City to look for work. She never saw him again.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
So my dad was 13 with four younger siblings and a mother who likely had only been a housewife. Women in those days were sometimes teachers, but in a town like Cordell there wasn't much economic activity. It must have been incredibly hard. Not to mention embarrassing. Hey, that's the poor family whose dad ran out on them! There are no secrets in a town that small.<br />
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I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been. I believe it shaped my father's emotional character in a way he could never fully overcome.<br />
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I wish I had better details and knowledge of his life then. Dad just never would open up very much about it. It's one of the things I never got to understand and enjoy. I would have loved to know more about him. But he was pretty emotionally closed off. When I went to see him last month, I'd hoped he would give me something real, but he didn't. The last night I spent with him, I waited for him to go there. I knew if I tried, he'd hem and haw. So I had to let him take the lead.<br />
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He watched stupid TV shows instead. So it remains in darkness.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
An enduring legend of Chuck came from his senior year in high school, which would have been 1951 or '52. He and two friends had been in a horrible car accident prior to the start of the school year. Riding three abreast and returning home from Oklahoma City, the car rear-ended a big truck that was cloaked in night. Dad was on the right. The boy in the middle was killed instantly. Dad had severe injuries; he bore a foot-long scar in his thigh the rest of his life and was in a body cast for many months.<br />
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So basically, screwed again. A time that theoretically could have given him some respite from the difficult path handed to him by his shitty father was instead full of hardship.<br />
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Dad played baseball, but his season was effectively over. Although he delighted in telling a story about how he finally regained some mobility in time to dress for the last game of the season. In his only at-bat, he got a hold of one and it flew over the outfielder's head. There were no fences in those days so it just kept rolling, and so did he. By the time the ball got back in he gimpily beat the throw and had a home run.<br />
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Joy. He was mobbed, and a friend named Max Deutschendorf bear-hugged him as he scored. Max told me this story to confirm it when we were in Cordell for Ronnie's funeral. Max' nephew John changed his last name to Denver and became a pretty big pop star in the '70s.<br />
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***<br />
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Dad served in the Army but dodged trouble as Korea had wound down.<br />
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He was stationed at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas. That was the place that eventually was most known for being where Elvis had his hair cut.<br />
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There he met a dark-haired civilian girl working in the secretarial pool.<br />
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Mom says their first date was to see a Doris Day movie, "Calamity Jane." Insert punchline here. The movie was released Nov. 4, 1953.<br />
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They were married Jan. 30, 1954. Whirlwind romance!<br />
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Knowing my grandfather, I somehow doubt he was thrilled by all of this.<br />
<br />
***<br />
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My parents lived in Fort Smith, Ark. They were due to have a baby in 1955.<br />
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Dad loved the flat, arid plains. After getting out of the Army he took a job as a postal carrier in some wide expanse of road called Midland, Texas.<br />
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I came along in 1959, and Curtis joined the party in early 1962.<br />
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I remember Curtis coming home for the first time. It's my earliest memory. Then I remember ridiculous car trips from Midland to Fort Smith in the back of an ugly lime green Oldsmobile station wagon. That's almost 600 miles. My parents would leave after work on Friday and drive it, then turn around Sunday afternoon for the return.<br />
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The other main memory I have of my dad was a family vacation to Colorado. I remember him scaring me at Mesa Verde. And I remember getting a flat tire on Pike's Peak, and as he changed the tire, our little dog Toto got out and ran off. My dad chased to catch him but he never came back.<br />
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I just remembered them taking me to see "Bambi." That's the first movie I remember seeing, and the re-release was in 1966. So I guess they were split or almost split.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
Dad began a long stretch of living in mobile homes. I guess that's an apt metaphor -- the ability to move on always there. He got married again, and again, and again, and again. The last one took, though -- he and Jo were married almost 40 years.<br />
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I don't even remember No. 2.<br />
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No. 3 was Ruth, and she was a sweetheart, great sense of humor, fun. Dad moved to Dallas in 66 or 67, and mom's job moved her there as well. So we at least had some interaction in his life, but for a long time, our visits to see dad were not memorable.<br />
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I wish I knew what he was going through in those days. Pop psychology time: I feel pretty sure that all of this was a result of his abandonment as a child. Some people feel abandoned; he WAS abandoned. Those issues manifest in some people with a chronic inability to develop deep connections. Sad to say I think this is what hurt our relationship and some of those issues hit me in life.<br />
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I don't know why dad and Ruth didn't last. I suppose I could ask her.<br />
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No. 4 was crazy. Her daughter was murdered with someone else and their bodies were dumped into a lake. That was weird but I never really knew much about that or her. They weren't together long. Dad met Jo and that was that.<br />
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***<br />
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I only remember seeing dad sad a couple of times. Once was at Beulah's funeral. The other time I was 12 or 13. We were in the car on Woodall Rogers, and I remember him telling me he didn't have any money to get me a birthday present. He cried.<br />
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I also only remember seeing him mad only a couple of times, and both of them wound up unintentionally hilarious.<br />
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The first time was when he lived in Howe, Texas. The community had an activity center with a pool and a gameroom with a pool table. Dad could shoot a little pool.<br />
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My brother and I were outside. Being jerks to each other. Somehow he splashed me with cold water and I started to chase him. He ran into the clubhouse and I pursued. When we got in he yelled "You boys stop that fighting!" He came after us with a pool cue then hit a wet spot on the floor and did the splits.<br />
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Everyone roared with laughter. The Russian judge gave him a 7.<br />
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The second time he got mad was on a golf course. He hated woods, so used a 1-iron. Off the tee he butchered the shot, and was not pleased. He chunked the 1, yelled "Fuck!" and it whirly-birded down the fairway. Not quite as far as his drive.<br />
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My brother and I wanted to laugh but we also decided to stifle. But I still laugh now when I think about it.<br />
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***<br />
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I remember scattered things we did when I was young. A Dallas Chaparrals game at Moody. A Black Hawks game or two. A Rangers game.<br />
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Dad became an insurance claims adjuster, and whenever there was a disaster somewhere, he'd be off to work in some remote location. It suited him. I guess he was something of a loner.<br />
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He loved to golf, and he was pretty good at it. He liked his Coors, and he was pretty good at that, too.<br />
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But as I got older, we didn't get closer. I guess in some ways I wrote him off, but I had to. He just didn't want to invest much in me.<br />
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It used to bother me a lot. Sometime in the 90s Curtis and I were driving out to Lubbock for a visit. Halfway there I told him I was going to confront dad about his distance. Curtis talked me out of it.<br />
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I would have loved for him to have been more interested in me. But I think he didn't know how to really commit to something so scary as deep emotion, even with his oldest son.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
I was the same way for a long time. I got into relationships then kept them a little at arm's length. I never was all-in. Sometimes I was more committed than other times, but ever letting someone completely in? That didn't really happen. Even when it seemed at the time I was giving 100 percent, I actually didn't.<br />
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Because that IS scary. It is difficult to feel safe. That was the greatest sadness in dad's life. He was with Jo a long time, so maybe he was all-in there. I don't think he was. I think she might agree.<br />
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He never was all-in with me. But Jo got him to try harder, and in the last 10-15 years, he did. He'd call and chat usually once a week or two, which was more than he'd ever done before. But most of the time that convo didn't last very long, and never got too deep.<br />
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It was the best he could do. He tried, and I had to learn that that was enough. I lost my anger, though not my sadness, but appreciated that he at least knew that the effort was worth something. At least, it was to me.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
I saved a handful of voice messages from dad. It will give me a chance to hear his voice again sometimes.<br />
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It's a shame he didn't have a happier life. Knowing a little bit about how people sabotage themselves, I think that some of the bad behavior he engaged in contributed to the heart attacks/bypasses/strokes he weathered.<br />
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Toward the end as his health deteriorated Jo said he had some hard looks on his face at times. I fear that may have been some regret, but when he had a few chances to cut some of that down, he passed on it. I am just speculating.<br />
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But I forgive you dad. I know you had a bad hand.<br />
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I hope I've learned some lessons. I don't want to regret anything. It's partly why I went back to school, to kill those 26 hours unfinished since 1983. Dad saw me walk, even though he hadn't really contributed anything other than motivation.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
It's taken me days to get this down and I've tried not to leave anything out. I surely have forgotten things, maybe I'll add later. Few people will be terribly interested, but I had to do this now while the wound is still fresh.<br />
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I hated going out there last month knowing it was goodbye. I really hoped he'd open up a little, but he was true to himself to the end.<br />
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And now we go on without him.</div>
Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-72561472790141032252015-06-18T22:38:00.002-04:002015-06-18T23:00:07.327-04:00Shelter in Place<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">April 19, 2013, was one of the oddest days ever.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
It started with a robocall from the police. The town of Belmont -- and surrounding communities Watertown, Cambridge and eventually every other one -- were advised to "Shelter in Place." I don't think I'd ever heard the term before.</span></span><br />
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The manhunt for the Tsarnaev brothers was in full swing. A metro area of 4.5 million basically shut down.</span></span><br />
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The military presence on the streets of Watertown -- about 120 yards down the street -- looked like an occupation.</span></span><br />
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A florist caught terrorist Dylann Roof.</span></span><br />
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***</span></span><br />
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The chase for Bowlcut Boy (no more references to this murderer's actual name) began about 25 hours ago, after this redneck calmly mowed down nine worshipers at a historic black church in Charleston, S.C.</span></span><br />
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There was no shutdown of Charleston. No heavy-handed show of force. And when he was taken, his body wasn't riddled with bullets in a "shoot-first, ask-questions-later" cowboy up.</span></span><br />
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Curiously, few in the media are calling this guy a terrorist. But he is. To be called a terrorist or a thug, you pretty much have to be Muslim or black or worse, both.</span></span><br />
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Yet there are plenty of white terrorists, especially in this town. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So the usual SOS went around today. We don't really even flinch any more when this happens. We've got a serious gun problem in this country -- it's too easy to get them, and the firepower is designed to mass murder. Hunters don't use automatic weapons.</span></span><br />
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Well, maybe shitty hunters do.</span></span><br />
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NB: It doesn't appear the shooter had an automatic. Nevertheless, mass shootings are way too common.</span></span><br />
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Along the Pike near Fenway is an electronic counter that tallies the American shooting deaths since Newtown on Dec. 14, 2012. A day or two ago it was already well past 78,000. After Charleston, 80,000 is coming up fast with a bullet.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The NRA terrorists have won. Nothing will change after this.</span><br />
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Off the top of my head, here is a list of places that are not safe:</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandy_Hook_Elementary_School_shooting" target="_blank">grade school</a>. Or a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Columbine_High_School_massacre" target="_blank">high school</a>. Or a college or a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Tech_shooting" target="_blank">university</a>. Or an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amish_school_shooting" target="_blank">Amish school</a>. Or a <a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/topics/ut-tower-shooting" target="_blank">university</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A church. Pick a religion.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waco_siege" target="_blank">religious compound</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Banks" target="_blank">Private property</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luby's_shooting" target="_blank">restaurant</a>. Or a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Ysidro_McDonald's_massacre" target="_blank">McDonald's</a>. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Aurora_shooting" target="_blank">movie theater</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_Tucson_shooting" target="_blank">political function</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2009_Fort_Hood_shooting" target="_blank">An Army base</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Washington_Navy_Yard_shooting" target="_blank">A Navy base</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmond_post_office_shooting" target="_blank">post office</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binghamton_shootings" target="_blank">community center</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Unruh" target="_blank">street</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_O._Barton" target="_blank">business</a>.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A <a href="http://www.latimes.com/nation/nationnow/la-na-nn-shots-fired-near-dallas-police-headquarters-20150613-story.html" target="_blank">police HQ</a>. Way to go, Dallas!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even a police HQ can get shot up. Think about that a second.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Want more gun violence? <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/16/us/20-deadliest-mass-shootings-in-u-s-history-fast-facts/" target="_blank">Clicky</a>.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Of course, other places have proven to be unsafe, like:</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
An airplane.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An office tower.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A federal building.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A marathon.</span></div>
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***</span></span><br />
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Shelter in Place. Is even that safe any more?</span></span>Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-77944759670744714202015-05-17T18:37:00.004-04:002015-06-18T23:00:57.304-04:00Live, from New York...<div class="gmail_default" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">
In TV terms, Saturday Night Live — which ended its 40th season Saturday — is well beyond mid-life. Outside of news programs, soap operas and The Tonight Show, it's essentially the longest-running show out there.</div>
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But like a lot of 40-year-olds, SNL has gone through a bit of a mid-life crisis. Men who turn 40 sometimes buy a sports car and try to date women half their age. </div>
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In SNL's case, staying virile and relevant now is staffing its most diverse cast ever, giving its writing staff room to take creative chances, and having guest hosts and musical acts bring an edge.</div>
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As with much of the show's history, that has yielded some home runs, and perhaps as many strikeouts. Both happened Saturday.</div>
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Millions of words, thousands of articles and dozens of books have been written about SNL. Few of those are from the perspective of a fan. Partly that may be because barely 250 people get tickets to see a show in Studio 8H.</div>
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To get a pair of the free tickets, NBC doesn't want to be lobbied in any way. People who want to go must email NBC in August of each year with a name, address and phone number.</div>
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I've done this for years, at first setting calendar reminders but the last several years knowing the process.</div>
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NBC doesn't acknowledge receipt of a request, and apparently draws as the season unfolds. On April 16, a notification was sent for the season finale then exactly one month distant.</div>
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At that point, get there as best you can, because the tickets are non-transferable. If you show up, you're in. If not, tickets are distributed to people on a waiting list.</div>
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It's possible to go into the city for the show only, but most likely, the best scenario will be to stay overnight. There are countless options to stay in NYC, and we looked at several: VRBO has been a reliable, affordable outlet, but most of those renters want more than a prime Saturday-only stayover.</div>
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Hotels in New York are expensive. More affordable options are either sketchy or too far from the Midtown HQ of NBCUniversal. If you're going to make this day trip, the closer the better.</div>
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We found a great option, the Mansfield Hotel in 44th street, just five blocks and an easy walk to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Built in the early 1900s, the boutique hotel offers packages to entice. We chose one that included brunch at 30 Rock. The hotel has valet parking, a nice nightspot, the M Bar, 24-hour room service, and a great location. It was easy to access and near attractions such as Bryant Park, St. Patrick's Cathedral, and Times Square. And by NYC standards, room prices for a Saturday ($359) were competitive.</div>
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Showgoers have to be in line by 10:15 p.m. An audience is seated for a rehearsal show that ends around 10 p.m. The admission process is surprisingly lo-fi: Check in with your invitation letter and ID, at which point you get two tickets (which you won't end up being able to keep as mementos), wait in line, empty your pockets before entering a TSA-style metal detector.</div>
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If you're particularly fetching, a pert production assistant plucks you from the line and puts you in a special line. These people wind up with coveted floor seating.</div>
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The rest are soon whisked into elevators and sent to the 9th floor. At that point, final bathroom breaks are possible, a show-specific wristband is applied, and by about 45 minutes before airtime, you're seated in the C-shaped stands overlooking the set. Before getting this far, however, cellphones must be powered off. NBC doesn't want a ringtone sounding during "Weekend Update."</div>
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While waiting, Pamela Adlon — host Louis C.K.'s longtime collaborator and the voice of Bobby Hill — was ushered past the waiting crowd.</div>
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The hallway to 8H includes photos from all eras of the show, and near the studio entrance, glass cases with the outfits of a Conehead, the Church Lady and Gilly.</div>
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Once in the studio, the level of activity is impressive. 8H is actually incredibly compact — the entirety of it is about 10,000 square feet. Dozens of set workers, camera operators, staff and pages swarm about the studio floor just below the feet of the audience. Sets border the perimeter, and SNL commercial breaks are like watching Indy 500 pit stops for their changing speed and intensity as sketch sets are deconstructed, removed then replaced.</div>
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About half an hour before air, the SNL band plays a couple of songs — a hot version of Jimi Hendrix's "Fire" got the audience up. "Weekend Update" co-anchor Michael Che then came up for a few minutes to spike the warmup, sharing a few jokes well-executed about racism and crowd behavior. As soon as he left, long-standing cast member Kenan Thompson came on and sang "Gimme Some Lovin'" with Vanessa Bayer, Kate McKinnon and Cecily Strong as backup singers. It was a pretty good rendition, made even better by last week's announcement that rumors of Thompson's impending departure from the show are apparently false.</div>
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By then, showtime was four minutes away. Impresario and SNL creator <span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Lorne Michaels, in his usual dapper suit and looking none the worse at 70, strolled around the set and suddenly cast members assembled for the show's traditional cold open, this time a takedown of the relentless campaign pandering of Hillary Clinton, complete with a guest groping (of Sasheer Zamata) by potential "First Dude" Bill Clinton.</span></div>
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Of course, the cold open ends with some of the most iconic (and anticipated, from an audience standpoint) words in television history: "Live, from New York, it's Saturday Night!"</div>
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Louis C.K. — who spent his teen years in Newton and launched his comedy career in the Hub — did a nine-minute monologue that set social media aflame with controversial takes on racism, the Middle East and pedophilia. The opening sketch with C.K. also had a sexual bent, maybe an awkward topic given some accusations against C.K. making the rounds just last week.</div>
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Those wouldn't be the only moments of iffy subject matter: a sketch about what some wags would call "Ebonics" had a black stereotypes at its heart, and Rihanna's second song "American Oxygen" was powerful, but filmed background images included harsh moments in U.S. history, including footage of the burning Twin Towers. "Too Soon," perhaps, especially for 21-year-old cast member Pete Davidson, whose late firefighter father perished in the attacks.</div>
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As the skits end, production assistants grabbed C.K. and rushed him offstage and into his wardrobe and makeup for the next bit, as the crews whirled through a set change. After 40 years, they've got this down.</div>
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The 90 minutes go by fast, and before the band has finished the show's signature sign-off song, the crowd is being dispersed.</div>
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August 1 is less than 2 1/2 months away. I'll be trying to get tickets again. </div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-78073477875960719802015-02-28T10:07:00.004-05:002015-02-28T10:07:50.444-05:00The Specials, Pt. III<div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIzn0bwa5W86fvd68vxW47Jq2XYkzpusvW2INrGGICwDEHZFzi2dfhEB5nlLORmVdGeZiC6VFpU4YL-gYigkZVCH1DqI3pwmq_ErrBhhfu1Mm3jhoFsbocsTCnmU24DtTYZd16Dx_Erk5/s1600/IMG_1157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIzn0bwa5W86fvd68vxW47Jq2XYkzpusvW2INrGGICwDEHZFzi2dfhEB5nlLORmVdGeZiC6VFpU4YL-gYigkZVCH1DqI3pwmq_ErrBhhfu1Mm3jhoFsbocsTCnmU24DtTYZd16Dx_Erk5/s1600/IMG_1157.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical snow path width. <br />Note Asshat-neighbor's vehicle blocking said path.</td></tr>
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Welcome back to the show. We're talking about The Specials -- those lovely Massholes for whom the rules do not apply.<br />
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Because it's Boston, and FUCK YOU!<br />
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***<br />
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Since we have three dogs, shit detail is a way of life. Of course it's not fun ... we have a small yard and if you go more than a few days without picking it up ... well, you can figure that out.<br />
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But The Specials have special dogs, too. Picking up poop is for the plebes.<br />
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I don't really need to go into detail on this one. You know what happens.<br />
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***<br />
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Another thing some people don't comprehend is the concept of personal space. It's forgivable on the T; at rush hours, there's just not enough room to comfortably have enough elbow room between you and your 1.3 million daily friends.<br />
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But elsewhere, when standing in a line somewhere, BTFU. Arm's length is a good standard.<br />
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This does lead to a brief (I promise) treatise on T etiquette. Here are some simple rules:<br />
1) When the train stops, let the people on the train off FIRST. Then, and only then, you can get on.<br />
2) Telling women (or men) on the train that they're "pretty" etc. isn't going to get you a phone number, a conversation, or laid. It just makes people uncomfortable. Don't be a creep.<br />
3) If an elderly person, someone with walking challenges (a cane is a helpful clue), someone with an infant or young child, gets on the train? Get up and offer them your seat. And don't think because you've got headphones on that we don't know you know. Stop being a selfish dick.<br />
4) Don't jump the turnstiles, cheap-ass. The T is in financial straits. Do your part.<br />
5) Don't leave your trash on the T. And slyly dropping trash from your pocket doesn't mean we don't see you.<br />
6) Can the cellphone conversations. It can wait. (Fun trick: Carry on the other half of the person's conversation. "Yeah, I'm going to Larry's now." "I hate Larry. He has hygiene issues." "Yeah, we're going to party." "If by party, you mean circle jerk, yeah, it's a party."<br />
WARNING: Not everyone appreciates this humor. But it does interrupt their cellphone call.<br />
7) Bathe.<br />
8) The buskers and what have you: Tolerate. At least they're brave enough to try.<br />
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9) To groups of people standing in the middle of stations at the T or otherwise blocking ingress and egress on the street: Move your ass. People got shit to do.<br />
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***</div>
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And now let's circle back to the epic snows. After a couple more inches between the start of this novel and today, we're officially over 100 inches for the season (most of that in February) and into the record books as the No. 2 all-time Boston snowfall. Yay! Yay?<br />
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Some broad thoughts on this:<br />
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1) Blowing snow into the streets is illegal; so is blowing it into the neighbors' spaces. I've called the cops on a trolling neighbor this season. M talked me off the ledge a couple of times, but if I could say what I want, it would be: Bitch, if you blow that snow over here one more time, I will go all Boston on your ass. She absolutely could not pull that in some parts of Boston without her head already being on a platter.<br />
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Truth be told, I'm a pacifist, so I'm never going to act out on stuff. But Jesus, what a jerk.<br />
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2) Help your (nice) neighbors out. (I'm looking at you, third floor.) Don't shovel into their areas, in fact, help them clear out. Work together. Take turns. Most of us learned this in grade school. If one person does the walk a couple of times, on the third snowfall, maybe you put down your gluten-free muffin, shelve your home-brewed beer, put on your Alpaca toque and pitch in.<br />
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3) Other general propriety is recommended. In Harvard Square several days ago the following happened...<br />
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The walks are a mess. A single path is carved between snow piles so that only one person can pass through at a time. As I approached a corner the other day, a woman came from the other direction. She was first, so I stood at the other side of the five- or six-foot long path and waited for her to pass. As she entered, a guy jumped out of a door and got in behind her. Hmmm. OK. Now two people crossing. Before the second person got through, a woman coming from the other side sped up and now SHE got into the path.<br />
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I wasn't happy, but I was too shocked by the sheer shittiness of it to react. The concept of "community" was trumped by the "Community of The Special." I dearly wish I had jumped into her path before she got through. I could have. "Huh. Impasse. Guess you're either going to have to back up or find a way through someone a foot taller and twice your weight. Well, maybe not twice -- might wanna try my hipster neighbor's organic muffins."<br />
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What kind of thought process creates this mindset? That people outrank someone else? That some people have to wait, and some don't? It's brazen.<br />
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I kind of am hating the people here because of this stuff.<br />
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This sort of thing somewhat explains the box-blocking and the cars passing on snowy streets that have been reduced to single lanes. (I heard that fistfights have broken out in Southie from people unwilling to cede to oncoming cars.) But in cars, people feel emboldened because they have a 3,000-pound shield around them. This woman had some balls. Some day she should get kicked in them.</div>
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***<br />
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Also witnessed in the PRC (People's Republic of Cambridge) ...<br />
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I've never seen city streets where someone could just annex a parking spot.<br />
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The first blizzard hit the last week of January. We've driven past vehicles barely visible, or entirely invisible, buried in snow.<br />
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In the PRC, you obviously can cop a squat and never leave.<br />
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I guess this is doable in other cities, although I've never seen it. Most large cities require people to move at least once a week for "street cleaning" or what have you.<br />
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The idea that you can do this is interesting to me. In Cambridge, resident parking is a thing. But how would anyone know if a buried vehicle belongs to a resident? Theoretically someone could have cold-camped in these vehicles. Hell, someone could be lying dead in one of them, preserved like a Wooly Mammoth from the Ice Age.<br />
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If anything represents entitlement thinking, it's the idea that you can commandeer a space.<br />
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***<br />
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OK, and now, the main reason I had to write this set: Something called "space savers."<br />
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If anything speaks to the entitlement mindset of The Specials, it's "space-saving."<br />
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Boston's parking shortage is legendary. It's an irritation shared by anyone who's lived here. There simply isn't enough parking available. So people are territorial about parking.<br />
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Because the government here is corrupt and stupid, the response to a big snow is supremely inadequate. In Montreal, it's smart and civilized.<br />
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Here, it's Boston, so FUCK YOU!<br />
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The streets are plowed right down the middle. Cars in most places are allowed to just sit through a "snow emergency" and often get buried under snowpiles.<br />
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I've seen cars parked in Cambridge that have been under it since the first snow. So they've sat there for at least a month.<br />
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In some places, after a snow, when someone needs their car, they have to dig it out on their own. After a plow's work has added snow to the pile. So it's a total pain in the ass, and takes someone an hour or two to free their car.<br />
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At which point they put a lawn chair, or some other totem, to "save" the space.<br />
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The twisted thinking is that, they dug out the spot, so now it's theirs.<br />
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A public parking spot.<br />
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Watch out if your common sense tells you "Hey, if I remove that lawn chair, I have a place to park." People will trash your car. Keyed is the least of your worries. Most likely your windows will be smashed.<br />
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Apparently people here are OK with this. Or at least, too scared to stand up to the bullying and selfishness to do anything about it. Vandalism is OK!<br />
<br />
This guy or girl, whoever, is my hero: http://www.spacesaverheroes.com/<br />
<br />
What shocks me the most is that these terrorists have cowed the authorities. If they did their job clearing the streets, this wouldn't happen. But they let these things be determined by The Specials.<br />
<br />
And The Specials are a community of assholes.<br />
<br />
And that's why, for as many great things there are here, Boston is nothing but a Ghost Town. It's not mentioned with the great cities of the U.S. New York, L.A., San Francisco, the list goes on. People don't respect Boston because Boston doesn't respect itself. It's a town filled with self-loathing, pretentious, selfish jerks. It's Buffalo with better history.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-38659070556520240082015-02-27T13:01:00.001-05:002015-02-27T13:01:43.534-05:00The Specials, Pt. II<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1F1QgW2OsEmyL8N1PjuZe0Dwn5itx_2dRAws3cVMrMNmIlFoytTu2qOrvOWX_ygMsLvNnCKKZJsc0-ZphMY8gKNRd-eF8TfDE5ATe0O89XnosyoHI8sh0wn1dr9NLRxE-aQOMPKWiRys/s1600/IMG_1162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi1F1QgW2OsEmyL8N1PjuZe0Dwn5itx_2dRAws3cVMrMNmIlFoytTu2qOrvOWX_ygMsLvNnCKKZJsc0-ZphMY8gKNRd-eF8TfDE5ATe0O89XnosyoHI8sh0wn1dr9NLRxE-aQOMPKWiRys/s1600/IMG_1162.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cambridge parking meter. Guess they don't need the money.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've railed on some of the issues that the antisocial types here -- I call them The Specials -- can't seem to fathom.<br />
<br />
Here are some of the crimes committed by people here every day:<br />
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* Cutting in traffic -- Boston streets are stupid. They were laid out on top of horse trails and walking paths created almost 400 years ago. There are bottlenecks everywhere. And a decent percentage of dirtball drivers routinely jump in through lanes (usually on the right) and then stop traffic at the last second trying to force their way back in. Apparently they think they're above waiting like everyone else has to. Further, they don't give a crap about blocking an entire lane of through traffic. They suck. </div>
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<br />
* Blocking the box -- People block intersections on the reg. You're not supposed to enter unless you can get all the way through. I don't understand why they do; if they're at the tail end of a line of cars, they're not getting anywhere faster. But they don't care about blocking cross traffic, because it's Boston and FUCK YOU! I have a fantasy of standing in an intersection with a hammer and smashing cars that do this. Because they won't be able to move away from it.<br />
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Of course, BPD or Staties could stop this, or at least inhibit it, if they'd stand watch at intersections and bottlenecks. But that would require their fat asses to actually do something.<br />
<br />
What DO they do, anyway? Shockingly, BPD officers AVERAGE salaries top six figures.<br />
<br />
AVERAGE.<br />
<br />
I'm all for cops being paid well. But that means working every now and then.</div>
<div>
* Fortunately, I saw a cop earn his money in a major way in Belmont. The crime that runs most rampant behind the wheel is double parking. It again speaks to the selfish nature of people here: They can't be bothered to share a community and wait for parking, plan ahead, work with a partner or generally not be dicks. So they double park, because it's Boston and FUCK YOU!<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I was in a great bakery in Belmont, Ohlin's. The street parking is precious, but there are spots, you might have to circle a bit to find one, or you just realize that your wish for buttery sweet donuts that day is going to go unfulfilled and you deal.<br />
<br />
I found a space, that last one ahead of prohibited parking that would block a fire hydrant. (TWICE in the last several months, some ass has blocked a hydrant firefighters had to get to because a FREAKING HOUSE WAS BURNING DOWN! They bashed in the windows of both cars to run hoses through. Those owners' homes should be set on fire and told whenever they can break through their cars to get to the hydrant, they'll be put out.<br />
<br />
Back to Belmont: I park, and before I can even get out of my car, a swarthy trog whips in in front of me, wedging into the hydrant access. He put on his flashers, got out and went into a store. I glared at him, got out and went to Ohlin's.<br />
<br />
Minutes later, I come back to my car. Of course he's still there. But now, a new wrinkle: And older woman double parks blocking me AND hydrant trog. As I walk to my door, she looks at me and says "I'll just be about five minutes." She pauses a second, and says "Three minutes!"<br />
<br />
Yeah, lady. No problem. Take all the time you want. Of course I should wait for you three or five minutes, because you're more important than me. Who am I?<br />
<br />
As she says this and walks away into another store, lo and behold, a Belmont cop drives the opposite direction down the street, slowing as the traffic does. We make eye contact and I kind of throw my arms up, hopeful that he grasps what's happening.<br />
<br />
He does.<br />
<br />
He flips on the lights and bangs a U. He pulls up behind double parking lady's car.<br />
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Hey lady, it's gonna be more than five minutes for you, I think.<br />
<br />
Cop jumps out, ticket pad in hand. She's inside, but comes out pretty quickly. Swarthy comes out even faster. By this time he's blocked the hydrant at least 10 minutes.<br />
<br />
He starts in on the cop. "I was only a few minutes." Cop's not having it. Then the guy starts mouthing off. Bad idea, dude. Cop barks at him.<br />
<br />
Double park lady also tries to talk her way out of it. Cop tells her to move forward so I can get out. She has the audacity to turn toward me and whine "You're a real pal!"<br />
<br />
"You double parked!" I say. Game over. The truth hurts.<br />
<br />
Will it change their behavior? Probably not. But it changed their bank accounts, and maybe their insurance rates. Fuck them. And thank you, thank you, thank you, Belmont Police.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, the bad guys lose.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-19690368392356785942015-02-26T11:58:00.000-05:002015-02-26T16:06:54.361-05:00The Specials<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJrkVfwWeIQFIXQi36M0GDoB7TlmZZ-ophK2H1wpcaiaDtiDEspWuODkWIG9g95K5j_QA_HD_7nCpzZMR8TRuJd9XPfTRz2i0ZmNomqkG4Cx_YPXPWEiXZ5h0cCbMnCJTvB1cMI-nyvVx/s1600/IMG_1057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJrkVfwWeIQFIXQi36M0GDoB7TlmZZ-ophK2H1wpcaiaDtiDEspWuODkWIG9g95K5j_QA_HD_7nCpzZMR8TRuJd9XPfTRz2i0ZmNomqkG4Cx_YPXPWEiXZ5h0cCbMnCJTvB1cMI-nyvVx/s1600/IMG_1057.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mass Pike tableau</td></tr>
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Wait for it ...<br />
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Seeing a shooting star slashing across the night sky is kind of magical. But it signifies the end of the individual meteor as it breaks apart and leaves a trail of glittering light in its wake.<br />
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Ska was a shooting star; it emerged riding the tail of the musical course correction that brought punk and "new wave" to Britain and the U.S. in the late 70s and early 80s. Ska, much less overtly aggro than punk, is laced with reggae beats and blaring brass. Still carries a message sometimes, though. </div>
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Like a lot of interesting music, ska was ripped off from black culture, in this case its post-war Jamaican originators. But it was Brit groups like The Specials who gave it a larger audience. Ska died down quickly but then came back again most famously with No Doubt. Sometime relatively soon, someone else will revive the style and it'll have another run. Shooting stars die, but there are always more on the way.</div>
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The Specials' two biggest hits were "A Message To You, Rudy," which is as fun a song as there can be. Their other smash was "Ghost Town," which had a meteoric (see what I did there) run to the top of the UK charts in 1981 and some success in the U.S. thanks to MTV and its irresistible beat.</div>
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"Ghost Town" is simple, but very dark. Written as a commentary on the devastating recession rolling through the U.K., the songwriters reported on the economic wasteland throughout the countryside they were touring -- shuttered shops, people scrambling to survive. There are always more "have-nots" than "haves."</div>
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***</div>
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I haven't written for a long time for a variety of reasons. The pace of life these days is breakneck. In August -- just a bit over six months ago -- we spent almost a week holed up in a Maine cabin on the water, and outside of some short sightseeing jaunts, basically just lazed about, listened to music, ate, read, and took it easy. It was glorious.</div>
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It seems like it happened two years ago.</div>
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In September, the rock of my family was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. She was in the Presbyterian Hospital ER the very same day as a Liberian man named Thomas Eric Duncan came in for the last time.</div>
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Panic and dread settled over my family, but happily, treatment has scored some victories and for now, things look positive. But I've been home twice, and I need to go some more. The stress of being so far away from my people is something I think about more now.</div>
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M's gone through a career upheaval. She's of course handled it well and has made that cut. (I call it "falling up.") But it was also mentally challenging, wondering if we'd have to rely on a sole income for a while. We've done that when I was out of work, so we know how to handle it. But these sorts of prospects lead to troubling nights.</div>
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Everybody has a busy schedule, but I feel like I'm always on the run. I work enough, although my work schedule isn't particularly overwhelming normally. However, there has been a little OT in the past couple of months.</div>
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Part of that has been due to record-setting snows here. Today is the first Monday in five weeks that hasn't been severely affected by monster snowfalls. Just four weeks ago, we had the first blizzard, a whopper that deposited more than two feet on us. Then the next two Mondays, more big ones, followed by one on Valentine's Day and into Feb. 15 (a Sunday) that made last Monday equally daunting.</div>
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Everyone's fed up with it.</div>
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***</div>
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In crisis situations you learn a lot about people. </div>
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You frequently see this in work settings. Some people let that stress ratchet up and they become like those dancing wind-sock men you see outside retail stores, wobbling and crumbling all over the place incessantly.</div>
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Some internalize it, never say a word, lower their heads and power on. Those people worry me a bit. Are they gonna go all D-FENS some day?</div>
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Some may grouse about the BS, but at the same time, know that they've gotta fight through it. I think that's me. I want things to go smoothly and if warranted will point out ways to improve the problem(s) going forward. But I also know that freaking out won't help, we still have a job to do, so let's do it.</div>
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And some just say "Fuck it."</div>
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Welcome to Boston, where The Specials live.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-4755946248311885032014-12-29T12:40:00.003-05:002014-12-29T16:01:28.355-05:0029 Dec 1993<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH4P3qyW-LqF2oT4C9bbrVqKU5NTGYDQpArcY0DxJIRDm85Lwo7bfL5T-L9A6g0w6P-2S6Z4zPQvrR8gLF4kFfPYbtp9mPc4tU9zz5MwDJSuZ2KjZT4jk7zeSUbFOFjn_Sn8jIzFSJ8nh/s1600/__hr_bailes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggH4P3qyW-LqF2oT4C9bbrVqKU5NTGYDQpArcY0DxJIRDm85Lwo7bfL5T-L9A6g0w6P-2S6Z4zPQvrR8gLF4kFfPYbtp9mPc4tU9zz5MwDJSuZ2KjZT4jk7zeSUbFOFjn_Sn8jIzFSJ8nh/s1600/__hr_bailes.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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It was a cold night. A clear night. I remember the brightness of the moon and the stars.<br />
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Bailey's birth day.<br />
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She was born at 12:30 a.m. in Presbyterian Hospital. Living here now, no one had ever heard of Presbyterian before the Ebola scare a few months ago.<br />
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On New Year's Eve that year, Bailey went home. First time out of the hospital. A little scary. We were rolling down the Tollway, and ERRP. That night, after finally getting her to sleep, she awoke sometime with the loudest wail I have ever heard. It seemed to have a physical presence and bounce from wall to wall.<br />
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Things were different, it was apparent. And so was I.<br />
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There were a few scares. She had a temperature spike past 100 degrees at about five or six months that happened on a Sunday; we rushed her to Parkland Hospital's emergency room. We were all terrified. Infants are so fragile.<br />
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You remember when they were sick; I guess it's the protective gene kicking in. Bailey was never really a sickly child, but I can remember when she was really under the weather.<br />
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But you remember the fun stuff too. She loved to swim, loved the water. She had a bit of adventurer in her; it wouldn't be surprising to see her pursue outdoor things at some point. When she was about 10, I lived at a big apartment complex that had an elevated area walled off with a 10-foot stone wall. As we walked past, she made an abrupt right turn and headed straight for it, and began climbing. It was ballsy, kind of hilarious.<br />
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I still feel guilt at the times I made her unhappy. She didn't like me fussing over her hair sometimes. As a soccer dad, instead of just letting her enjoy what she was doing, I projected too much onto her. When I moved to California, she cried and I bawled on the plane for an hour. Children should never have to pay for the mistakes of a parent. I'm sorry, Bailey.<br />
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She got that competitive fire eventually. She took up tennis, and got pretty good at it. The first time we played, I thought "Don't try and fire aces at her." No worries; she won handily. Then I thought "OK, now assert yourself." She won handily.<br />
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Now I was irritated. "Teach her a lesson!"<br />
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She won handily.<br />
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Eventually I won a set from her, but I had to resort to drop shots and cheap moves and generally being as underhanded as possible. It's the only time I ever won.<br />
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A few years ago it didn't seem like our relationship was as good as it could be. Most of that is on me; I didn't live nearby anymore. And teenagers just don't have a lot of interest in their parents.<br />
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I didn't really know what to do, I knew I missed her. The hardest thing to do is be comfortable with time sorting things out.<br />
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Bailey went to college, and I moved to Boston. I watched from afar. I didn't see her for almost two years.<br />
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But she visited last summer, and she'll visit next week.<br />
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She's young, but not a child. She's interesting and seeing the world from a different perspective. She's herself, and that's a good thing, and something that a father has to learn about too. I think parents want to see some of their own imprint manifest itself -- but only the good parts. I'm glad she has my height and my smart-assery. Although sometimes a little less smart-assery would not be bad. I got myself into trouble.<br />
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Someone once told me "I can't make your mistakes for you."<br />
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I want the lessons Bailey learns to have soft landings. Some mistakes leave marks; those are good. Hopefully there aren't too many that leave scars.<br />
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How can my daughter be 21?<br />
<br />
James Taylor wrote, "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time." That's not an easy thing to do. I missed big chunks of Bailey's life, but that happens to everyone. It bugs me at times like these, but on the other hand... she's in a good spot in her life, and so am I. And in the last year or so, our relationship has gotten better and better.<br />
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She's more focused than I was at her age. She's working toward her goals and is not making mistakes I made. Well, most of them. I'm super proud of that, super proud of her.<br />
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Happy birthday, my sweetie.<br />
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<br />Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-24211505138561634892014-12-13T12:15:00.001-05:002014-12-13T12:15:37.917-05:00December 2014Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-36869941717103411882014-07-31T16:10:00.001-04:002014-07-31T16:10:18.232-04:00Rank 'em: The Pretender, Jackson Browne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/44/Jackson_Browne_The_Pretender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/44/Jackson_Browne_The_Pretender.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
Yesterday we way back, 1969 in fact, to look at the classic Abbey Road. Today the mix yielded something just a few later but very different: Jackson Browne's fourth album, The Pretender, released in 1976.<br />
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By this time, Browne had developed a reputation as perhaps the best example of songwriting in the "California" style of the '70s that would be perfected by the Eagles (who he was close to and contributed a major part of the credit for their breakthrough hit, <b>Take It Easy</b>).<br />
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Browne wrote catchy-ass tunes, and backed by the studio musicians who would sometimes be most of a fringe group called The Section, he had a distinct sound. Most folks today might find it a little dated, but two things endure about Jackson Browne: 1, he wrote a TON of hits, and 2, women swooned over this guy. Some of us considered this inexplicable, kind of the way we evaluate John Mayer today.<br />
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One girl I was really interested in, Shirley, was a music major in college. She liked Jackson a lot more than she liked me. I bought her a JB songbook, which she liked. More than me. Another girl I liked, Lynn, was even more enamored with him. Later, when rumors came out that he had been physically abusive, I hoped it wasn't true, because I hate people who hurt women, but it took some of the sting out of constantly ranking behind this mopey long-haired German-born star.<br />
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Complicating matters was the fact that I really liked his music, though. His first scores, <b>Doctor My Eyes</b> and <b>Rock Me On The Water</b>, took him from acclaimed songwriter to big star. People who weren't around in the 70s don't realize how big he was. With The Pretender and then Running On Empty in 1977, Jackson Browne was about as big a star as their was in the rock world. The Eagles were bigger, as was Elton John, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, the Who... but after that, he was way, way up there.<br />
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The first album of his I bought, and to this day my favorite of his, is The Pretender.<br />
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The album opens with <b>The Fuse</b>, a tone-setter for the dominant mood of the album's eight songs. Some lyricists just free associate and that's their "art." JB would go on in the 70s to be one of the leading voices of social activism for a number of issues, and he's pretty clear in The Fuse about what's on his mind and what he's going to be talking about for the time it takes to get through The Pretender:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Whatever it is you might think you have / You have nothing to lose / Through every dead and living thing / Time runs like a fuse / And the fuse is burning / And the earth is turning.</i> </blockquote>
The almost six-minute long song starts slow but winds up with a long instrumental workout as it builds toward the end. Very nice bit of music.<br />
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Browne's 30-year-old wife had committed suicide just a few months before the release of The Pretender. For a writer who focuses so much on lyrics, there's obvious pain and searching throughout the album. A generation of teenage listeners could easily find some common ground with the earnest questions JB seemed to find unanswered throughout The Pretender.<br />
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This is especially true on the second song (as well as the title cut). <b>Your Bright Baby Blues</b> tackles a lot of topics: Loss, longing, love, loneliness... even drugs and spirituality make guest appearances. It's a beautiful song (lyrics <a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jacksonbrowne/yourbrightbabyblues.html" target="_blank">here</a>). The girls probably wanted to wipe away JB's tears. The guys wanted to say "Umm, you can wipe away MY tears."<br />
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The next song, <b>Linda Paloma</b>, is kind of a head-scratcher. It's fun, but it's very... Mexican. I mean that positively. In the 70s there just was almost nothing like it, outside of regional acts like Freddy Fender or the Texas Tornados. The charm is that it introduced a new cultural experience to listeners who probably had never heard mariachi music before. It works, but it's certainly a stretch.<br />
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<b>Here Comes Those Tears Again</b> was perhaps his biggest hit from the album. It was given a co-writer credit to Nancy Farnsworth, the mother of his late wife. Obviously poignant, although the song deals with a relationship gone wrong and not overtly about the tragic suicide of his wife. Still, anyone who's had to deal with relationship shit can relate.<br />
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The second side of the album (I'm going to keep using this info when albums where the "thing") began with my favorite song on the disc, <b>The Only Child</b>. There's so much wisdom in this song... it reaches into your heart and holds you close. The album's cover art had JB walking across a crowded LA street; the flip side had a small child running through the surf on a beach. I wondered if that was JB's young son, then not yet three. JB was a single dad now. The song begins with the lyric "Boy of mine..."<br />
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I tried to find the perfect excerpts from this song, but couldn't... because it's front-to-back meaningful. So read them <a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jacksonbrowne/theonlychild.html" target="_blank">all</a>.<br />
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JB fans won't need to click that link, because they probably already know them all. They're just looking for another lonely child.<br />
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<b>Daddy's Tune</b> starts kind of sad, about the age-old story of generational/parental conflict. The lyrics tell of JB lamenting a rift with his father, or a father... how hard it was to communicate. But the song kind of pivots to a romp, and the lyrics turn to an acceptance of the wisdom gained only through time.<br />
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The upbeat end is welcome, because it won't be found on the next song, <b>Sleep's Dark and Silent Gate</b>, which would make Morrissey suicidal. The final verse offers no real respite:<br />
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<i>Sometimes I lie awake and wonder / Where the years have gone / They have all passed under / Sleep's dark and silent gate</i></blockquote>
There is a tiniest bit of good news: The song's only 2:37 long. A good song, but not a happy one.<br />
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<b>The Pretender</b> closes the album, and it's classic JB. The big difference is that in almost all the songs on the album, JB talks about personal traumas and concerns. Even though the title track is spoken in first-person, it seems to be more about everyman than just the singer. The song talks about the emptiness of consumerism and capitalism... living to work, instead of working to live. A guy named Bruce Springsteen on the other coast was tapping into this hopelessness at about the same time.<br />
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The final lines describe the acceptance, the assimilation, that so many Americans just give in to. Still relevant almost 40 years later:<br />
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<i>I'm gonna be a happy idiot / And struggle for the legal tender / Where the ads take aim and lay their claim / To the heart and the soul of the spender / And believe in whatever my lie / In those things that money can buy / Thought true love could have been a contender / Are you there? Say a prayer / For the pretender / Who started out so young and strong / Only to surrender.</i></blockquote>
Powerful.<br />
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Jackson peaked with this album, for me at least, although he'd have a great followup that probably sold more, and a few more hits. But this album scores and soars across the board.<br />
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This one's tough to score. I had it pegged below 4-6 originally, but am instead going to move it to No. 4 because of its thoughtful messaging and the fact that Nilsson and Tom Tom Club are kind of lightweight. Let's update the rankings:<br />
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1. <a href="http://mybostonrag.blogspot.com/2014/07/rank-em-abbey-road-beatles.html" target="_blank">Abbey Road</a>, The Beatles</div>
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2. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/day-25-review-of-sandinista-by-clash.html" target="_blank">Sandinista</a>, The Clash</div>
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3. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-bends-by-radiohead.html" target="_blank">The Bends</a>, <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/day-292-ranking-radiohead.html" target="_blank">Radiohead</a></div>
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4. The Pretender, Jackson Browne</div>
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5. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/07/cd-reviews-nilsson-schmilsson-and-son.html" target="_blank">Nilsson Schmilsson</a>, Harry Nilsson</div>
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6. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/cd-review-tom-tom-club.html" target="_blank">Tom Tom Club</a>, Tom Tom Club</div>
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7. Son of Schmilsson, Harry Nilsson</div>
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8. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-311-by-311.html" target="_blank">311</a>, 311</div>
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Sorry, 311.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-84065985516890485662014-07-31T00:46:00.000-04:002014-07-31T00:47:52.976-04:00Rank 'em: Abbey Road, The Beatles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/42/Beatles_-_Abbey_Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/42/Beatles_-_Abbey_Road.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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No. 1.<br />
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OK, I mean... the list is only seven items including this one. Of course this is going to rank No. 1. Let's just update the list, then I'll get into specifics:</div>
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1. Abbey Road, The Beatles</div>
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2. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/day-25-review-of-sandinista-by-clash.html" target="_blank">Sandinista</a>, The Clash</div>
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3. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-bends-by-radiohead.html" target="_blank">The Bends</a>, <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/day-292-ranking-radiohead.html" target="_blank">Radiohead</a></div>
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4. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/07/cd-reviews-nilsson-schmilsson-and-son.html" target="_blank">Nilsson Schmilsson</a>, Harry Nilsson</div>
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5. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/cd-review-tom-tom-club.html" target="_blank">Tom Tom Club</a>, Tom Tom Club</div>
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6. Son of Schmilsson, Harry Nilsson</div>
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7. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-311-by-311.html" target="_blank">311</a>, 311</div>
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This was the last album the Beatles recorded together. Although Let It Be was completed mere weeks before they hit the studio in 1969 for what would become Abbey Road, the band released this album in October 1969 and Let It Be in May 1970.</div>
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If anyone's seen the movie of Let It Be, it's a sad peek at the disintegration of the greatest rock band ever (and what is almost certain to remain the greatest rock band of all time).</div>
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This album is the first Beatles album I purchased. Of course it has great sentimental value but it's truly an amazing work of art across the board. The Beatles had nothing to prove by 1969. They were so far beyond what any group would ever experience. Every breath was pioneering.</div>
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Some people like to argue how great the Beach Boys were. Good band, but they never grew. The Beatles could have cashed check after check after check signing variations of "She Loves You" but they kept pushing themselves and the form. It's kind of astonishing to think that if they'd never existed before today and started releasing their music, they'd be every bit as critically acclaimed and commercially viable as they were 50 years ago. The music is timeless -- very few bands release anything as good today, and none better.</div>
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The album opens with <b>Come Together</b>, a Lennon piece with a funky vibe and obscure lyrics that seemed to be a continuation of the heavy themes first tackled on the White album. The Beatles' incredible versatility is on display here. The darkness hinted at in the album opener would be revisited in a couple of other songs, but interestingly, there's more light than dark on this album. But it was a dark time. 1968 had seen political assassinations, the widening of the war in Vietnam, the election of Nixon, and 1969 brought more. Yes, you had Woodstock. You also had Altamont. And Charlie Manson, the band's worst fan.</div>
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A great, intriguing song.</div>
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<b>Something</b> was a revelation that showcased the burgeoning songwriting skills of George Harrison. Two of his greatest compositions would have hallowed places on this album. George had contributed a few excellent songs through the years -- Taxman, If I Needed Someone, While My Guitar Gently Weeps leap to mind -- but anyone would remain dwarfed in the enormous shadow that was Lennon-McCartney.</div>
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But Something hinted at the creative strength Harrison had developed and would soon reveal with All Things Must Pass.</div>
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George was never a fantastic songwriter. But he was good and Something was the best thing he'd ever done... until it was eclipsed five songs later on Abbey Road.</div>
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Paul's first song on the album, <b>Maxwell's Silver Hammer</b>, was by some accounts a pain in the ass. Perfectionist Paul apparently could not be satisfied with the cut, and the already tense situation among the bandmates was not eased by recording this one. The final piece has some great George Martin touches... the final verse has an incredible organ countermelody embedded; sublime. I am drawn to it every time.</div>
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This is without a doubt the best song about a serial killer ever written. So dark... but Lennon called it "granny music." When I had a few days as a substitute music teacher, I should have played this for the kiddies.</div>
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Paul has then and since caught a ton of shit for being Paul. If anyone tells you Paul McCartney is a lightweight or can't rock, play them <b>Oh Darling</b>. Then tell them to shut the fuck up.</div>
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Story goes that Paul smoked up and worked to rag out his voice to record the vocals for Oh Darling. He rips it, hard. The tune is catchy enough, but it's Paul's vocals that make this song. The music itself is kind of simple. Granny music my ass. Paul is an elite talent and wrote a ton of superb songs, many that rock really hard (Helter Skelter, Why Don't We Do It In The Road). Macca kicks major ass with this one.</div>
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Ringo even got a winner on this album. <b>Octopus' Garden</b> is credited to Ringo, and to this day remains one of the most delightful, fun songs ever written. Kids love this song. Even old kids. Starr's persona as the happy-go-lucky guy was confirmed with Garden. No one doesn't like this song.</div>
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My favorite track on Abbey Road closed side one of the "album" -- <b>I Want You (She's So Heavy)</b>. This is a Lennon "love song" to Yoko and it's also so heavy, and very very dark. The repeated phrasing and playing drones on and on, carrying the listener away on a scary late-night ride. You can't stop. You don't know where you're going. You don't know if it's going to be OK. But on you go. The pace picks up. The focus narrows. The sound grows louder and louder and louder. Still you go.</div>
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This song is about as far from the silly love songs of 1962 that one can go... a complete 180 from the lightness and sunshine that the band hit with just a few years prior. In a lot of ways this song echoes the transfer from hope and optimism of their early songs and JFK-era positivity to the mood in 1969 of the end of the hippie dream, the dark side of drugs, war and violence... It's probably the Beatles' most underappreciated masterpiece.</div>
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As the song unrolls over almost eight minutes, the listener wants to grab hold of something for the coming impact. So of course, the song ends with a sharp cut and you're left to figure it all out all by yourself. And then the album side was up.</div>
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It was incredibly harrowing and jarring. The album was released just weeks after the Manson murders. I had just enough inkling of the times to know that there was a mood of things getting black and bad, and no one who thought they had the answer of peace and love felt so sure any more. The song slams against the wall, it's over, and further, you have to get up and turn the album over. I Want You (She's So Heavy) is perfect on many levels. John always did want people to think.</div>
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Flipping the album, George was back and the atmosphere lightened completely. <b>Here Comes The Sun</b> was the hand held out to pick you up from the wreckage of I Want You (She's So Heavy). For all the incredible, sweet charmers that Lennon and McCartney had produced, George played this card and stunned the world.</div>
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This is such a happy, hopeful song. As I write this now, and through many listens in my life, I often tear up at the simple beauty of this song. In My Life does it to me every time, too.</div>
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George didn't write many songs as good as this in his post-Beatles work.</div>
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Sometimes I wonder what we all lost when those cancer sticks took George, or that asshole took John. Whatever it was, it was significant.</div>
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Throughout Abbey Road, the Beatles seemed to put aside their issues with one another and a world that just wouldn't let them be just long enough to show everyone how magical their collective gifts were.</div>
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The harmonies on <b>Because</b>, set against the backdrop of Martin's harpsichord, are breathtaking. In a way, that blend of voices from John, Paul and George were one of the band's greatest achievements.</div>
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The beauty continues with the next 16 minutes of song snippets that were incredibly fused by the band and the genius Martin. <b>You Never Give Me Your Money</b>'s sensitive piano opening, augmented by soulful guitar accompaniment and Paul's lovely lyrics... so pretty. And then the song shifts gears, getting jazzy and upbeat, before closing with some tasty drumming by Ringo, an epic guitar signature by George, and then as the song fades with the countdown verse ("1,2,3,4,5,6,7, All good children go to heaven"), some kickass soloing from John.</div>
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The song blends into a John piece, <b>Sun King</b>. It's kind of a playful workout, but things come fast and furious from here on in... King is followed by <b>Mean Mr. Mustard</b>, another typically quirky Lennon piece, as is <b>Polythene Pam</b>. John was into the Yoko thing and pretty fed up with the Beatles trip, but the old soul had plenty left in the tank when he wanted to kick out the jams. This was John's band, after all.</div>
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The entire sequence lets everyone show off a bit, and then they hand the thing off. It works. After a nice jam to end Pam, Paul takes the baton with <b>She Came In Through The Bathroom Window</b>. Guitars carry the song, and Ringo drives the bus.</div>
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Ringo is so underrated. The Beatles probably still would have been huge with Pete Best. But Ringo was the even-handed backbeat that kept it all together. In a few minutes, he'd get his due.</div>
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<b>Golden Slumbers</b> is next, after a somewhat conventional "end" in the run with Window.</div>
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Did Paul know it was over? I think what makes us fans ache at the end of this band was the things they seemed to tell us as Abbey Road wound down. The lyrics for Slumbers ("Sleep pretty darling do not cry / and I will sing a lullaby") and the next song, <b>Carry That Weight</b>, seem to be saying goodbye.</div>
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But they weren't going to end it on a downer.</div>
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<b>The End</b> is a kickass jam, begun by Ringo's amazing drum solo. Then Paul, George and John play solos. Epic solos.</div>
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I mean... these guys could do anything.</div>
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And of course, they wrap the song with some of the most quoted lyrics of all time, delivered in that astonishing three-part harmony: And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.</div>
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As we catch our breath, they send one last kiss: A cute little snippet called <b>Her Majesty</b>. </div>
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And then it was over. By the time Let It Be hit a few months later, the band was done, and everyone knew it, although no one wanted to believe it.</div>
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I rank my songs on iTunes. I gave Her Majesty four stars out of four; everything else gets five. This album is one of the greatest pieces of art ever gifted to humanity.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-84530850810550986342014-07-30T18:05:00.000-04:002014-08-01T12:33:14.915-04:00Ranking my CDsI've had the hardest time finding time to write. A couple of days ago, I thought I had better force myself to do it. This is that attempt.<br />
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On <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">JJ</a>, I started reviewing my CD collection as a way to "exercise" my writing, to stay limber. I just went back into the archives... at one point, my idea was to rank all of my (our) CDs. Here's what I had so far:<br />
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1. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/day-25-review-of-sandinista-by-clash.html" target="_blank">Sandinista</a>, The Clash<br />
2. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-bends-by-radiohead.html" target="_blank">The Bends</a>, <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/day-292-ranking-radiohead.html" target="_blank">Radiohead</a><br />
3. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/07/cd-reviews-nilsson-schmilsson-and-son.html" target="_blank">Nilsson Schmilsson</a>, Harry Nilsson<br />
4. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2012/03/cd-review-tom-tom-club.html" target="_blank">Tom Tom Club</a>, Tom Tom Club<br />
5. Son of Schmilsson, Harry Nilsson<br />
6. <a href="http://joblessjournal.blogspot.com/2011/06/cd-review-311-by-311.html" target="_blank">311</a>, 311<br />
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Obviously, I didn't get too far down the list. iTunes says we have almost 42 DAYS worth of music. I'd better get crackin'...</div>
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Notes:</div>
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<li>I'm going to let iTunes randomly pick a song, and I'll review that album.</li>
<li>311's 311 is currently ranked No. 6. That's going to be a high until I review anything else. How low can it go?</li>
<li>I reserve the right to change the rules. What are the rules again? Oh right, there aren't any. I should devise a scientific approach and have thought about this. But music is subjective. Millions of people like Creed, Nickelback, Bieber. Not me. My rankings are going to be simply this: When I listen to something, is it better than the first disc on the list? The second? The third and so on.</li>
<li>Clearly, those first five are all better than 311. Someone might disagree. That someone is stupid. (j/k) (Not really.) (yes, really j/k. Lighten up.)</li>
<li>I'm going to try and do one of these per day. Or at least every other day. Or at least, once a week.</li>
<li>Or at least, today, for sure.</li>
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Comments, of course, welcome. Or even, suggestions about what to review next! I may actually have it.</div>
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But now, yardwork beckons, and since I've spent most of this day off sleeping and/or goofing off, I am going to do something responsible, then take a nice shower, then hopefully add No. 7 to the list.</div>
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Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6965653791071500844.post-13158839335807396652014-07-07T16:02:00.000-04:002014-07-07T16:10:01.856-04:00An excellent adventureFriday is my virtual Monday, but it's become more fun by virtue of a taco restaurant that just opened about a month ago in Harvard Square.<br />
<br />
Begun as a food truck, this tiny bricks-and-mortar place has chicken, beef, pork and fish tacos, some decent sauces and a handful of other Mexican-type menu items. It's pretty good. Best of all, on Fridays and Saturdays, it's open until 2 a.m. Those hours work for me, and the food is light enough to make for a solid late-night snack option. We've probably already been at least a dozen times.<br />
<br />
Last Friday was July 4th; work was unusually frustrating. It was a holiday, a lot of people have been on vacations, we had a sort of irregular mish-mash of staff. It also rained all day from the remnants of Hurricane Arthur off the coast. Just a weird day. Best to cap it off with something good, like tacos.<br />
<br />
Around midnight we found parking in the square and darted through the raindrops to get to the restaurant. Two of the three staffers there already know us; the third was a young girl, maybe 19-21, we hadn't seen before.<br />
<br />
She seemed nice, and the three of us struck up a conversation.<br />
<br />
She didn't usually work nights, but had taken someone's shift because she had needed the previous day off to attend her mother's GED graduation ceremony and swapped out. That's a wonderful story, right?<br />
<br />
But for this girl, it meant getting up early enough on July 4 to take the T to Harvard Square by 8 a.m. And then... she worked for 18 hours, until the 2 a.m. closing.<br />
<br />
"How are you holding up?" we asked.<br />
<br />
"I'm OK, but my shins are hurting a little bit."<br />
<br />
"Do you live nearby? How are you getting home?"<br />
<br />
"I catch the last bus to get to Dudley Square, then I have to walk the rest of the way."<br />
<br />
"Wow, that sucks! How long does that take?"<br />
<br />
"Well, the bus takes about 30 or 40 minutes, then I have to walk about a mile or so. So I get home after 3, maybe 3:30. Then I have to get up at 6 to catch the bus coming back because I have to be back here at 8."<br />
<br />
Can you imagine?<br />
<br />
I work hard. Most of the people I associated with work hard. But I haven't had many 18-hour days bookended by public transportation travel of at least an hour each way. And I haven't had many 18-hour days followed up by returning to work just six hours later. That's brutal.<br />
<br />
M and I looked at each other and conferred. Should we offer a ride home?<br />
<br />
Of course we should.<br />
<br />
"Hey, we could take you home if you want a ride."<br />
<br />
"Really? You sure?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, that's a long day, we'll save you an hour of sleep that way. I just got off work so we're awake anyway."<br />
<br />
"That would be great, thank you so much."<br />
<br />
We finished our meal, exchanged phone numbers, and headed home for a bit. At 2, still under a light rain, we were back. She came out a couple of minutes later and hopped into the back seat.<br />
<br />
"OK, where do you live?<br />
<br />
"In Roxbury. It's a little rough."<br />
<br />
Well, too late to worry about that now. Besides, we weren't going for a hang. And if the neighborhood is rough, that's even more reason a young girl shouldn't be walking more than a mile through it in the dead of night. She's around my daughter's age.<br />
<br />
We set off down Memorial to Mass Ave., crossing the bridge toward the roads we've traveled many times en route to Northeastern. We have figured out that once past Tremont Street, the neighborhood starts to get a bit meaner. Two blocks past Tremont, we turned right on Washington Street.<br />
<br />
We perhaps should have stayed on Washington, but I missed a turn at Malcolm X Blvd. and instead wound up on Warren Street toward Dudley Square. Malcolm lived near here as a teenager, and worked in a store at the corner of Humboldt and Townsend.<br />
<br />
As we drove down Warren, I saw a white cop waiting to cross at a light. We briefly made eye contact. He seemed to have a bit of a quizzical look on his face.<br />
<br />
Moments later, a white older car passed on my left. Two black dudes glanced over at me. I started to realize there weren't a lot of white people around. Passing MLK Blvd. was also an indicator. But no matter, this was going to be brief.<br />
<br />
At Townsend we turned right, past a stately old school called Boston Latin Academy. Down a few blocks... the streets here, curiously, had a lot of names that started with the letter "H." Haley, Harold, Harrishof, Hazelwood, Hollander, Holworthy, Homestead, Howland, Humboldt, Hutchings. We passed six of them in mere moments before turning down the destination street, Harold.<br />
<br />
At the end of this narrow, one-car-only-at-a-time street, an SUV appeared to block the end. That made me a little nervous, but it was actually just a car parked where the street T'ed out on a one-way circular street off of Harold. I went down the street.<br />
<br />
We were there. She hopped out and we waited as she got inside. It was about 2:25 a.m. Our good deed had saved this hardworking kid an hour of sleep.<br />
<br />
But now, we were getting a little freaked out. A left onto the narrow one-way street circling back out took us between large project housing on either side of the street. On our right three guys stepped from the shadows toward the street. Just passing through, not staying, ta-ta!<br />
<br />
I moved as quickly as possible down the skinny street and got to a larger street, turned right, and quickly found well-lit avenues and headed toward Mass Ave.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I spent a lot of time Saturday and Sunday looking closer into this neighborhood. What I found out scared me a bit. Boston's streets are a mess; very little here was laid out on a grid. The streets twist and turn and curl and undulate and ramble in a way that would be great if you have "home-street" advantage, but otherwise, you're going to get lost.<br />
<br />
Getting lost here could have been a problem. I found that I was mere blocks away from <a href="http://www.wgbh.org/articles/Blue-Hill-Avenue-If-A-Street-Could-Speak-735" target="_blank">Blue Hill Avenue</a> -- the most notorious street in Boston. It runs right through the heart of the city's most troubled neighborhoods of Dorchester, Roxbury and Mattapan -- charmingly called "Murderpan" by some of the more cynical locals.<br />
<br />
These H-named streets are known collectively as the "H-Block." The H-Block gang is one of Boston's most feared. Look 'em up.<br />
<br />
Boston PD regularly update crime statistics. The district we cruised through is B-2. Have a <a href="http://static.squarespace.com/static/5086f19ce4b0ad16ff15598d/t/53a9d956e4b0e3331b80776b/1403640150359/June-23-2014.pdf" target="_blank">look</a>.<br />
<br />
If you want more specifics, try <a href="http://www.universalhub.com/crime/roxbury.html" target="_blank">this</a>. And this <a href="http://www.neighborhoodscout.com/ma/boston/crime/" target="_blank">map</a> if you're so inclined goes into greater detail. Follow our path to see teh stoopid!<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
However...<br />
<br />
Would we do this again? Would we have done it if we knew how rough that neighborhood was beforehand?<br />
<br />
I don't know. At one point M and I wondered... how sad a time we live in when doing something nice for someone is something you second-guess.<br />
<br />
A lot of big questions. On this street once lived Melnea Cass, a woman with streets named after her, a giant in the historic Boston black community. It's kind of a shame that her neighborhood now is Ground Zero for gang violence.<br />
<br />
I guess I'm naive in thinking that just doing something good for someone is enough protection to get you through a rough place. I'm not Gandhi, I'm just a guy who admires seeing someone work an 18-hour day because they wanted to attend their mom's big day. Those are real values that not enough people seem to have these days.<br />
<br />
It just seemed like a nice thing to do. Maybe it was stupid. But we both felt like even a little gesture might be worthwhile in helping each other out.<br />
<br />
We are all in this together, you know.Phoebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05938436183905581498noreply@blogger.com2